


The Elaborate Truth

by OpalSkyLoveDivine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, eventual Sherlolly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19323013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalSkyLoveDivine/pseuds/OpalSkyLoveDivine
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is certain that in this world truth is rarely pure, and never simple. But when he learns Michael Hooper’s secret, he realizes that the truth can also be dangerous...in more ways than one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, all you wonderful people! Well, I'm quite excited about this one and to be honest, was more than a little intimidated about doing a Victorian AU, but the idea just wouldn't leave me alone! So with the encouragement and extraordinary beta reading powers of Writingwife83(Thanks again, hun!), I bring you this humble offering of period Sherlolly goodness. Your feedback is always appreciated! Many thanks for that in advance! So without further adieu...

 

Her long skirts rustled as she walked across the empty office to lay the carefully written report on the coroner’s desk. But just as the papers touched the surface, still in hand, she froze.

 

It took 2 seconds for her to register the familiarity of the voice she heard echoing down the hallway behind her. Confusion paralyzed her body; her addled brain slowly reconciling the fact that she just heard Sherlock Holmes’ baritone and it was getting closer.

 

“After a 4 hour journey from London, gentlemen _and_ as the hour is well into the generally accepted work day, I can not comprehend _why_ the coroner is not here. I sent a wire yesterday informing him that I was due in at this time and I fully expect to familiarize myself with the facts, one way or another.”

 

At that very moment Doctor Molly Hooper realized her time had just run out.

 

When making his acquaintance almost 3 years ago, she _knew_ the days of her exhausting double life were numbered and there was a small part of her that was glad of it.

 

Molly had always assumed the man would finally see through her disguise one day, either because of the failure of the fake mustache or perhaps from some feminine clue as a result of letting her guard slip. Even if it were but for a brief moment, Dr Hooper knew him well enough to _never_ underestimate his talents. She was incredibly fortunate to have lasted _this_ long undetected.

 

That being said however, she wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

 

Living this fiction for so very long made it almost a reality. All the complexities, from the family lineage, history and lifestyle of herself, plus that of her counterpart were wearing her thin.

 

Yet she would marvel from time to time at how her father and uncle were able to pull it off.

 

Even with the 1876 legislation prohibited the exclusion of women from universities and medical schools, they both knew Molly would be denied in most opportunities and areas of practice, particularly in the sciences where she flourished.

 

But did they ever have a _full_ understanding of what she’d have to endure in maintaining such a charade? If they had lived long enough to see the whole reality of the ‘opportunity’, would they have thought it all worth the price?

 

Truly, only she could be the one to say so. But she did wonder.

 

As she heard the detective’s footsteps enter the small room, she, in that split second of frozen time and summoning all her acting abilities, resumed the action of laying her report on the desk.

 

Not expecting to see the back of a woman, his quick stride was cut short, bringing him to an abrupt stop.

 

Relinquishing the papers, she turned to look right into the face she knew so well. Not as the petite man _he_ knew as Doctor Michael Hooper, but ironically, for the very first time, as herself.

 

Only _she_ had to somehow appear as if she’d never laid eyes on him before.

 

The moment his eyes met hers, she _knew_ he saw someone familiar, yet somehow also a stranger.

 

The incongruity reflected in his sudden disorientation. It was now up to her to pull off the seemingly impossible…to _fool_ Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Oh…good morning, sir. Forgive me, I’m done here…just delivering my report for Doctor Warren. I’ll be on my way,” she said, stepping forward as if to take her leave from the office.

 

The detective stood motionless, his eyes glued to the small woman, whose  good-natured expression soon morphed into one of mild confusion.

 

Blinking twice before glancing about the room briefly, a weak smile appeared on her lips.

 

“Sir?”

 

After another moment her forehead wrinkled slightly and her smile disappeared.

 

Slowly his intense stare gave way to rapid blinking and a furrowed brow, while remaining immobile, effectively barring her only means of escape.

 

All futile hopes of making a speedy exit were dashed as he asked, “Do I know you, madam?”

 

Masterfully her expression became open and curious. Her brown eyes searched his chiseled features before giving a small smile and shake-of-the-head in certitude.

 

“Indeed, no. I am quite sure I’d recall making your acquaintance, Mister…?”

 

As the petite woman shyly extended her gloved hand, he quickly glanced down at it before reaching out to firmly clasp it in a handshake.

 

“Sherlock Holmes.”

 

At once she was all realization and amusement.

 

“Ahhh…I think I understand now.” Molly grinned, seemingly at her own deduction. “I think I heard you say you were up from London?”

 

He nodded, still holding the ladies hand.

 

“Well, you must know my cousin, sir; for he surely knows you! He’s often written about you and the many interesting cases you encounter in that ghastly city.”

 

It took but a moment before the detective made the connection, replacing all manner of bewilderment with a look of pure shock.

 

Her grin widened into a bright smile as she gave his hand a slight squeeze, which roused him from his stupor.

 

“Your cousin is Michael Hooper,” he stated flatly, but his face was filled with astonishment as the realization settled in.

 

“Yes, he is! And I am Doctor _Molly_ Hooper. It’s lovely to meet you…an amazing coincidence considering we’re quite removed here. I have not seen even Michael since he stopped from Canada on his way to Edinburgh. And that was over 12 years ago! How very remarkable!”

 

“Certainly a singular coincidence…it’s _doctor,_ you said?” the detective inquired, as he slowly released her hand,

 

“Yes, doctor of the medical sciences, plus a speciality in materia medica and toxinology, which is why I was consulted in this particular case.”

 

“Ah, yes…the bees, which incidentally is the reason for my interest. The London criminal has been _exasperatedly_ well-behaved as of late. I was fortunate enough to receive Dr. Warren’s communication about the peculiarities of this man’s death.”

 

“I was not even aware that you were acquainted.”

 

“There was a rather brutal double murder a number of years ago near Leeds. Your coroner and a handful of other examiners were brought in…oh, and one consulting detective,” he added with a small but proud smile.

 

“I seem to recall reading about Dr Warren’s involvement with some business in Leeds, but I don’t remember any mention of Sherlock Holmes,” she grinned with a slight tilt of her head.

 

“No, I often decline any mention, especially outside of London. It’s much gentler on the fragile egos of the constabulary and my main gratification comes from the work itself.”

 

“I see.” Looking up through her lashes. Her grin widened, having first-hand experience with those egos; she understood.

 

The two stared at each other for a moment before the man looked down and cleared his throat,

 

“Tell me, did you know the deceased? Probability would indicate that you did, since he was a local resident and advanced in years.”

 

“We _were_ acquainted, rather indirectly. My father, who was the doctor here when he was alive, knew him quite well. As a child my contact with him was limited and later my time was split between my studies. I don’t recall our paths ever crossing, although I _am_ saddened by his death. I’m somewhat baffled as to _how_ he died, however.”

 

There was a sudden twinkle in the detective's eyes. “Indeed?”

 

“Yes, the levels of bee venom in his blood were definitely lethal, but from Dr. Warren’s examination, there were no indications of more than one puncture wound on his body. It’s all very odd.”

 

“Hmmm, curious.” His gaze migrated over to the coroner’s desk as he walked over to it, opening the 2 folders marked “Birlstone”; he began looking through them.

 

_Michael_ Hooper was fully acquainted with Holmes’ audacity, but Molly Hooper was not. And she needed to react accordingly.

 

“Um, sir. I must warn you, I am certain that the doctor would rather be present during your investigation. He can be quite strict on proper procedures.”

 

He looked up briefly at her comment before returning his attention back to the files, with a ghost of a smile on his lips.

 

“I thank you, madam for your cautions…but I’m also sure that he would not wish to detain me considering my promptness on his request. I _did_ send a wire.”

 

“Yes, though he would not have received that wire until this morning and he has a standing appointment with Sir Henry Ingilby every Friday morning for a round of golf on his estate. So you see Mr. Holmes…,” she said with sparkling eyes, “…he is completely ignorant of your presence here.”

 

He paused once more as he considered her statement, seemingly uncertain whether or not he should be irritated by her interference. He raised his eyes slowly to connect with hers, seeing only genuine concern and a quiet nerve, and so he responded in returned measure.

 

“Please do not burden yourself, Dr Hooper. I will bare full responsibility for my actions. If it would ease his mind however, I _could_ mention our chance meeting and discussion over the facts of the case.”

 

“You are free to do so, of course, but I’m not convinced that it would aid your cause.”

 

Sherlock’s brow crinkled slightly at her remark. “Was I mistaken to assume that there is a professional consideration between you?”

 

Molly weighed her response.

 

“You are not necessarily mistaken, Mr. Holmes. But in light of his propensity for the traditional social norms, I wouldn’t hesitate in believing that _if_ there was a male counterpart with my credentials nearby, I would not be standing in this office now.”

 

Blinking quickly, his troubled gaze shifted to the ground, as he clasped his hands behind him.

 

She was inwardly surprised at his abashed reaction to her words, not having the opinion that Sherlock Holmes had any sympathies toward gender equality. Yet there he was, seemingly displeased.

 

The unexpected sympathy, albeit unspoken, caused such a sudden reflex, her next words were said without any forethought.

 

“Would you take a late morning tea with me, Mr Holmes? Doctor Warren usually returns no later than 2 o’clock. Meanwhile, you could see the microscopic evidence in my laboratory firsthand.”

 

Their eyes met once more and she could see mild surprise at her rather bold invitation. But in a moment it was gone, replaced by something she’d best describe as curiosity.

 

* * *

 

 

As they emerged into the morning sunshine he observed a black tilbury rig and trotter with bright eyes waiting to the right of the front entrance. The small carriage was light and compact; built for speed and short trips…roomy for one, but cozy for two.

 

“The day was so fine I didn’t bother with the hood this morning. You don’t mind the fresh-air after your long train ride, surely. It is only a short ride to my cottage.”

 

“No, doctor, I don’t mind,” he said with a half-grin, lifting his face to the sun.

 

Sitting in companionable silence, she couldn’t help but marvel at the unexpected turn of events.  Never would she have guessed her morning trip to the constable station would have resulted in tea with Sherlock Holmes!

 

Minutes later they arrived at her beloved country home. The detective disembarked first and turned to proffer his hand, which Molly took with a slight smile.

 

“Oh, and If we don’t linger with our tea, I _do_ believe we’d have just enough time to see my apiary,” she said proudly as she stepped down and walked to her front door.

 

Realizing her statement brought the detective to a standstill; she turned to see an astonished look on the man’s face.

 

“Beehives?”

 

She couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction and just nodded in response.

 

_“_ How utterly remarkable, _”_ he said  to himself, obviously unaware it had been stated aloud, as he followed her quite eagerly into the house.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The English countryside rushed past the train window at varying speeds. The lush patchwork of Lincolnshire farms gave way to the gray of the coal fields, then through shading canopies.

 

All this was lost on the detective however, as he sat ruminating with his second pipe.

Reviewing the days events, he found most of his thoughts were focused on the female doctor. Something about her intrigued him. She was uncommon, that was for certain, but there was something else… something he was missing. The word _Extraordinary_ even came to mind, but somehow that label made him uneasy. The hours they spent together, he’d admit it, were quite engaging. The sit-down for tea lasted only a couple of minutes before they migrated to her late father’s consulting room-turned-laboratory and he was silently impressed by what he saw.

 

Her research regarding the mysterious death of Douglas Birlstone was methodical and thorough, reflecting a surprising depth of knowledge and expertise.

 

The lab, in general exhibited a lifelong interest in science. From her studies of plant life and small animals to human physiology- their physical structure, chemical processes, and molecular interactions. There were even several collections from when she was a child.

 

But out of all her scholarly pursuits, the one that captured his imagination the most were her beehives. He even found himself rather envious. At any rate, the glimpse into her sheltered world served to ward off the unrelenting boredom that constantly haunted him. He was contented with the outcome of the journey; proving that it was not a waste of his time.

 

And there was still a possible murder to be solved.

 

Sherlock’s meeting with the coroner later that afternoon basically served to express the detective’s recommended course of action in light of the surprising toxicology report.

 

Dr. Hooper’s research proved, at least to his mind, that there _was_ indeed foul play.

 

But just how _did_ the man get an equivalent of one thousand bee stings in his blood-stream with no more than one puncture wound evident? Especially since the body lay on the sitting room floor.

 

The butler insisted that Mr. Birlstone wouldn’t have ventured outdoors after sundown. According to his previous statement, Wednesday nights had always been his night off, so he was ignorant of his employer’s death until the following morning.

 

The constabulary needed to widen their net; a thorough investigation into the deceased habits and a closer look into his known associations. Were there any recent deviations from the norm? Had the town folk seen anything unusual?

 

Unfortunately, he’d have to wait until these new enquiries were done by the local constables, as his offer to assist was declined.

 

He would have to possess himself in patience until he received word from chief inspector Greyson…a lamentable ordeal to be sure, but nonetheless, unavoidable.This meant for the time being he needed to turn his imagination to all the possible causes, however unlikely; he considered them all.

 

Through the growing cloud of tobacco smoke, he observed he had at least 3 more hours until London. So he lit a third pipe and settled back into his cushioned seat. Eyes heavy-lidded and arms crossed, he let the trains hypnotic sway lull him into the realm of his mind-palace.

 

All the while, in a seat two carriages back, sat a rather petite man in a bowler hat, with auburn hair and mustache, reading the London evening edition.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> First, thank you for all the great commentary! It helps to know what you're thinking and that I'm on the right track!  
> Second, thank you Writingwife83 for your beta work, you're simply awesome!

 

After receiving word from Chief Inspector Lestrade, Holmes sent Billy, one of the Baker Street 'irregulars,’ to inform Doctor Watson to meet him at the morgue.

 

“Ah, _there_ you are, Watson. I trust you left Mrs. Watson and Rosamond well this morning?”

 

The retired army doctor had just exited the hansom and started towards St. Barts when he heard the detective’s voice behind him. Making an about-face, he gave a weak smile and a quick nod.

 

“My apologies, Watson. There’s a rather _unusual_ John Doe, who’s met with a suspicious end. Your assistance will be most appreciated,” he said, passing him with a quick stride before he could receive an answer.

 

John sighed as he followed the man’s fluttering cape into the recesses of the cold chambers, his eyes adjusting to the relative dark.

 

Michael Hooper was busy with paperwork as they burst through the heavy wood and iron doors. She met Sherlock’s steady gaze as they crossed the long cavernous room, closing in on where she sat.

 

“Holmes,” addressing him laconically, schooling her voice to indifference. She had been preparing herself all morning for his arrival after the chief inspector’s visit, hoping to give no indication other than business-as-usual between them.

 

“Hooper,” he returned, “I believe you have an unidentified man for me to examine?”

 

“Yes,” she confirmed while rounding her desk and proceeded to walk towards where the bodies were kept, the pair following closely behind. “He was found near the corner of Lyme and Georgiana, though he did not die in that location. There’s evidence he dragged himself across Camden Rd, even as far as St. Martin’s Garden.” 

 

Dr. Hooper walked past the lines of covered bodies without any indication of slowing, continuing along a corridor that inclined quite steeply, causing the duo to cast questioning glances at each other.

 

“Um, why are we going to the deep storage depository?” Watson asked behind her.

 

Michael’s small smirk was mostly concealed by the mustache. “All will be revealed, Doctor,’ she said, “…momentarily.”

 

Passing another set of heavy doors they entered a low ceilinged room that had a number of  lockers lining both sides of the chamber. Walking to the far end, they stopped at a niche labeled “Unidentified” with the date scribed on an attached slate.

 

As Doctor Hooper opened the large drawer, a terrible stench was released causing both men to react.

 

“Cor! What the hell is that stink! That’s not from decay.” John grimaced, covering his mouth with his pocket handkerchief.

 

“Of course not, Watson. Time of death was well within 12 hours, was it not, Doctor Hooper?”

 

“Indeed. Death is placed during the pre-dawn hours, between 12:00 and 4:00 this morning. He was brought in only an hour ago and I wasn’t about to allow such foul air to permeate my rooms, if I can help it,” she responded, crossing her arms in front of her.

 

Watson grinned in silent agreement as the detective took a closer look at the body that lay in front of him. 

 

“Apparent cause of death from this rather vicious head wound?” Holmes asked as his eyes continued to scan the rest of the man’s body.

 

“Yes, obviously,” she muttered in her lower register, “I’m actually surprised he wasn’t killed immediately from the blow.”

 

“Clothing?” he asked just as he spotted the crate at the foot of the deceased and began sorting through it before she had the chance to reply.

 

“Hm…” he took out his glass when examining what looked to be trousers. “Yes, this all supports my premise,” he stated under his breath. 

 

“What premise?” Watson asked in an even tone, trying to hide his curiosity.

 

“This man was a tosher,” Holmes asserted, returning the glass to the confines of his jacket. 

 

Both doctors stared at him in silence. Watson’s brow immediately furrowed, while Hooper struggled to keep her expression neutral.

 

Meeting his friend’s eyes and seeing only confusion, the detective let out a dramatic sigh before clasping his hands behind his back.

 

“Come now, Watson. Surely you’ve heard the term.”

 

The good doctor’s eyebrows disappeared under his gray bowler hat, warning Holmes of his waning patience.

 

“A sewer hunter…he scavenged the subterranean world for his living.”

 

“Or perhaps a mudlark,” Dr Hooper interjected before Watson could respond.

 

The detective’s gaze, suddenly shifting to the pathologist in reaction to her comment, stepped into her personal space; his confident air turning first to brief irritation, then to mild surprise while he considered her words. 

 

“Was there anything to show for his labors last night?” he inquired tersely, his eyes searching her brown ones.

 

“No, all pockets were empty,” she answered in a low even voice, betraying nothing of her growing nervousness. She could almost _see_ the flash of turbulent thought in his penetrating stare.

 

“Were there any tools found in relative proximity to the crime scene?”

 

“No, not one.”

 

The lack of such evidence caused him to ruminate further; his brow creased as he thought aloud.

 

“Admittedly, it _is_ true that many of the indicators of a tosher can also be applied to the similar occupation of a mudlark, such as the coat with the ridiculously large pockets, as well as the dirty canvas trousers.  And yes, the telltale signs of the dark lantern he strapped to his chest _could_ indicate either one, but if you would observe the various wounds on his legs,” he asserted, “many are old, others more recent, these are undoubtedly the work of the ferocious sewer rat, which are well documented to attack in hoards when inadvertently cornered _and_ is not as often encountered on the shores of the Thames. Furthermore, I propose that this distinguishing roguish odor is particular to the depths of the London _sewers_ and not it’s muddy shorelines, as noxious as that may be. What's more, the shape and size of the fatal wound corresponds to the elongated iron hoe-attached to a pole of approximately 2 meters, specialized to the challenges and dangers of the sewers, typically used by the tosher. Its blade had a broken corner, which could prove conclusive in matching the particular murder weapon.”

 

Doctor Watson watched and listened in silence at the exchange, clearly trying to glean some understanding, while the other doctor marveled less obviously at the workings of Sherlock Holmes’ brilliant mind. 

 

“Point taken,” she conceded, breaking their gaze as she turned to close the drawer. “During the autopsy I’ll look for any signs of infectious diseases associated with microorganisms found in that kind of miasmic environment.”

 

“Excellent, doctor,” he said as they made their way back to the receiving area. “Meanwhile, I will inform Lestrade of my conclusions and suggest an investigation into this shadowy world, which will prove difficult considering the illegal nature of their association. Another support to the probability of a tosher -his earnings typically produces items of higher value, such as coins, silver, and gold, sometimes earning as much as 6 shillings a day. A mudlark’s yieldings consists more often of coal, wood, or rope, certainly less of a motivation for murder and betrayal. I believe we’re looking for a confederate, as they usually scavenge in gangs of 3 or 4.” 

 

“Understood. And I’ll send word detailing my findings…whether or not they corroborate your theory,” Doctor Hooper said before adding, “I will also suggest to the inspector that he look into the mudlark gangs, since their circles frequently intersect.” 

Holmes watched with a small smile as she ensconced herself at the desk once more. He followed Watson who was making his way to the front door, but stopped midway just as the doctor reached the entrance. 

 

“Oh, I almost forgot, Doctor Hooper,” Sherlock announced, wheeling back towards the pathologist, causing Watson to look over his shoulder.  

 

Micheal Hooper noticed the detective pull something out from under his coat as he returned to where she sat. With an odd, almost smug expression on his face he placed a small parcel wrapped in wax paper on the table. 

 

It wasn’t until the doctor opened it to reveal a piece of honeycomb did he say, “A present from your lovely cousin.”

 

He observed her eyes go wide before abruptly turning once again to exit the morgue, a smirk spreading across his lips. 

 

John held the door open, scowling with confusion just before Holmes crossed the threshold , calling out behind him, “She sends her regards.” 

 

Before the doors shut she could hear John say, “Cousin? Who the hell is this now? Holmes…!”

 

Hooper’s stunned face slowly changed; a half smile lifted a corner of her mouth as she lowered her eyes to the sweet package in front of her. 

  


* * *

 

 

Anna and Gideon Ames were her secret keepers. They were, of course much more than that, but as the only ones still alive that knew of her double-life, it was a significant fact.

 

The devotion started years ago with the needs of a grieving doctor and a lost little girl. It grew in complexity until they found themselves indispensable to the fragile world of that girl, now all grown up. She was no less than a daughter to the childless couple and one who they would die for, if the need arose.

 

Molly knew this very well and went to great lengths to do what she could to make their precarious position easier. When her schedule would allow, she would travel back to Spilsby, as far as Firsby station, to insure that her comings-and-goings were not observed too often by acquaintances, typically during off-hours, and drove the 6.4 kms back. Gideon would meet her in the small brougham, sometimes emerging as Michael from the East Lincolnshire train, but always arriving at her home as Molly Hooper. For she knew, in as much as the road to Bolingbroke was not a busy one, it would take only a single sighting of cousin Micheal to get the townsfolk talking. 

 

Their extra precautions served them well, for the Ames never heard a suspicious word spoken of the Hooper family, either in the village or the market town of Spilsby.

 

Over the years they took full advantage of Molly’s reputation as a peculiar spinster; daily life of a female was typically quiet and domestic, but her ‘studious’ endeavors would keep her more solitary than most. Nonetheless, the couple would make regular visits to town during extended absences, on their mistresses ‘errands’, for one thing or another. Many of which were quite legitimate, as to fulfill a request from one of her weekly letters.

 

Michael’s London life was consumed with morgue responsibilities, while Molly’s life was arranged to be more contemplative and academic, giving her time to experiment, particularly in the natural sciences. She did her best to experience what she could, with the help of the Ames’. And they had become quite good at it.

 

This most recent event, however, left them utterly gobsmacked when their mistress returned with not only a stranger to them, but apparently someone closely acquainted with Michael Hooper! It was all they could do to keep a straight face and resume their duties as usual. 

 

This peculiar happening seemed to give rise to a general uneasiness in Anna, and in turn began to worry Gideon, who had learned to take his wife’s intuition very seriously. But it wasn’t until 2 days later that Gideon truly began to understand the scope of his wife’s trepidations.

 

He was out tending the vegetable garden and orchard that morning, weeding and gathering with the help of Toby, a strong but simple young man he had hired some years back when he was unable to do the heavier work on the estate. 

 

“Gideon…” 

 

He looked up to see Anna standing about 10 meters away, with a haunted look on her face.

 

“Toby, continue on with the potatoes and then start on the apples. The Pippins first and then the Bramleys,” he instructed. “I’ll be back shortly.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Toby agreed as the older man joined his wife. He briefly watched them speak in hushed tones as they walked to the house before returning to his duties.

 

In the kitchen the couple sat in silence as Anna’s words began to sink in.

 

The now shaken woman had heard an unanticipated knock at the front door and opened it to reveal a grim looking Inspector Greyson standing in the threshold. He’d come to see the mistress on an urgent matter, he said. Anna told him that no, Miss was not at home and was uncertain of her return, doing her best to remain calm. She explained that the doctor often took trips, sometimes unexpectedly, for a day or even a week at a time. She explained that since they were related to her work, they were never privy to the details, including the exact return date. 

 

To say the outcome of this interview didn’t please the Inspector would be quite an understatement and he “requested” the couple’s presence at the station in Spilsby within the hour for further questioning.  

 

At this point they needed to make a decision. Do they take the ‘wait and see’ approach or should they presume the worst?

 

Settling on the later, they told Toby to go home for the rest of the day, but to return by 8:00 that evening. And with that, they set off to the station house, feeling like in spite of all they’ve done to the contrary, they were about to bring Molly Hooper’s world crashing down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so a little cliffy, but no apologies for my shameless attempt to keep you coming back!  
> That being said, chapter 3 is mostly written, so don't be too angry with me. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truth, like gold, is to be obtained not by its growth, but by washing away from it all that is not gold. –Tolstoy

The detective sat meditatively in his chair as dawn broke London’s pitch-black skies with ghostly veils of yellowish pink, the creeping fog slowly casting its ominous spell. 

 

His closed eyes snapped open at the sound of an unexpected knock on the downstairs door and listened motionlessly as Mrs. Hudson answered the early caller. Only after hearing the approaching steps on the stairs and muffled voices did he stir, slowly rising to his feet. 

 

Following another brief knock the landlady partially-entered the dim room and spoke in a hushed voice. “Mr. Holmes, you have a Dr. Michael Hooper here to see you regarding a matter quite serious, he says.”

 

He was surprised, for the pathologist had never been to 221B prior and would be the least likely visitor, especially at this time.

 

“Indeed?” He responded in subdued curiosity. “Please send him in.”

 

Opening the door fully she moved aside to reveal the shadowed figure who stood behind her.

 

As the doctor stepped forward into the muted light Sherlock knew without a doubt that there was a matter most grave.

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I believe perhaps a spot of strong tea would be beneficial.”

 

“Of course,” she replied with an understanding smile before closing the door behind her.

 

Michael Hooper seemed rooted to the spot as the detective packed and lit his morning pipe. Taking his first draw he observed his unexpected guest more closely -the downcast gaze, ashen pallor, slight tremor that was increasing by the second and the somewhat crumpled paper that was clasped tightly in the doctor’s hand.

 

Within seconds Holmes’ brow furrowed as his deductions took shape. He removed the pipe from his mouth just as their eyes met and there was a sudden drop in his stomach that he didn’t quite understand.

 

“Your cousin?” he asked flatly.

 

Suddenly Doctor Hooper’s face screwed into an expression of anguish and began to shake rather violently. This prompted Sherlock to direct her to the chair in front of the fire and to retrieve a glass of brandy, which he pressed into her quivering grasp.

 

“Take a moment to compose yourself, doctor, and then tell me everything from the smallest detail. Something of minor consequence to you can mean a great deal to me. And I will try to be of service  _ if _ you, in turn constrain your emotions, for the matter could require expedient action.”  

 

She took a large gulp of bandy before nodding slightly, and drew a deep, tremulous breath. Just as the detective sat in the adjacent chair she thrust the paper into his hand without a word and turned her attention to the flickering hearth.

 

Sherlock scanned the communication quickly and learned that it was not from the cousin, but from the faithful servant Anna. The hastily scrawled note was bereft of detail, simply stating the dire circumstances. 

 

Inspector Greyson was looking for Molly Hooper in connection with the Birlstone murder. Anna was released after being questioned, but Gideon was still held for possible collusion, presumably until Molly is found or she surrenders herself. 

 

The last sentence read:  _ I strongly advise you see Sherlock Holmes. I believe he can be trusted. _

 

He looked up to find the doctor’s panic-stricken, almost manic energy gone and she now seemed weary and demoralized. 

 

“So it appears,” the detective pointed out, “that your cousin is still at large. This hopefully will give us the time we need.”  

 

“She didn’t do this,” Hooper whispered in a low rasp. “ _ How _ could they actually think that…”

 

“I will do my utmost in the matter, doctor...but you must know this...I require absolute honesty on all levels, if we are to clear your cousin’s name. I demand nothing less.”

 

He could see a war of conflict in the doctor’s eyes as she considered his words, both locked in a stare that was proving to be a battle of wills. Somehow he knew there was something of great significance that was being withheld. 

 

Michael’s forehead creased from inner-struggle, while her mouth briefly opened before closing in a hard line. Suddenly breaking the connection, she squeezed her eyes shut as if to exert one last ditch effort to hide. 

 

It took a moment and he waited with uncharacteristic patience, but when she met Sherlock’s eyes this time, they were different. Her gaze was strong and unreserved, lacking all of the previous resistance and conflict he once saw. 

 

But instead of speaking, Michael Hooper carefully placed the glass of brandy on the side-table, then turned back to the man and raised a hand to her mouth. Sherlock’s brow crinkled as he watched the doctor slowly peel the mustache off, while the other hand slid the healthy stock of auburn hair off a head of pulled back tresses.

 

They sat across from each other, stock-still; she was totally vulnerable, while he was utterly dumbfounded. He blinked rapidly at the moment of the reveal, but as seconds passed he became expressionless, which caused Molly to worry that she made a fatal mistake.  

 

But just as the fear set in the detective spoke in his deep baritone. “How…” he breathed, his demeanor shifting with his words. “...did I not see it before? Undeniably and inexcusably  _ blind _ .”

 

Continuing to reproach himself, Sherlock slowly leaned forward as if to discover some deeper meaning that aludded him, at the same time reconciling the fact that Michael Hooper had veritably vanished and  _ Molly,  _ the principal suspect to a murder had suddenly appeared. His mind was reeling from the implications. Their association, albeit not of a  _ social _ nature, had been years in the making.

 

Resignedly she remained fixed in her seat as the man processed her long-held, most damning secret, all the while captivated by his crystalline eyes.

 

“Obvious…how did I not see it?” he repeated. “...completely indefensible.”

 

“Perhaps, Mr. Holmes…” she interjected in an instantly softer tone, “...it’s as you’ve said before. You see but you don’t observe.” Her now feminine mouth curled slightly in the corners.

 

His eyes widened at her remark and he considered this woman, now entirely unguarded and in obvious jeopardy; a person who just moments ago was someone he  _ thought _ he knew. He found she was indeed, totally correct. 

 

Among other things... it was all a bit humbling.

 

Just then the door opened causing them both to jump up in alarm, face to face with Mrs. Hudson and her laden tray.

 

For an instant they stood quite stunned, though the older woman was the first to react after putting two and two together.

 

“Forgive the interruption,” she said with a gentle smile. “But I’d say this is a perfect time for a nice spot of tea. This must be that lady doctor you spoke of a couple of days ago...with the same name, Dr.  _ Molly _ Hooper, isn’t it?”

 

The sudden precariousness of sharing her secret with yet another person must have shown on the pathologist’s face.

 

“Not to worry, doctor,” Sherlock insisted, moving to relieve his landlady of her burden. “Mrs. Hudson is the very soul of discretion.”

 

Grunting her assent, she busied herself with arranging the china in their settings and glanced with twinkling eyes at the young woman, who wrapped her arms around her stomach nervously.

 

“Come, dear,” she intoned in a motherly way. “Have a hot cuppa. It will calm your nerves.”

 

With a deep shaky breath she approached slowly, the tension in her neck and shoulders easing a bit. Molly could feel the detective's following gaze as she sat, her flaccid hands settling in her lap. She watched as the older lady poured their tea before calmly taking her leave without another word. 

 

Joining her at the table, he leisurely stirred two sugars into his tea before observing his guest encircle her hands around her cup and bring it’s steamy warmth to her face. After remaining this way for a long while he concluded that the doctor must be in a mild state of shock. “Drink, doctor...the tea would be more beneficial inside your body than in the cup.”

 

This comment seemed to rouse her and she drew long sips until returning it empty to it’s saucer.

 

“Right...down to the matter at hand?” he asked after observing a bit of color in her pale cheeks.

 

“I will attempt to limit my  _ many _ questions...and they  _ are _ many... to the case in question. Are you equal to it?” he challenged with a penetrating stare.

 

Maintaining a determined front, she lifted her chin, straightened her spine and nodded as she set her mouth in a hard line.

 

“Where were you at the time of the murder?”

 

“London.”

 

“At the morgue? The time of death was set between eight and eleven that evening.”

 

“No…” she recalled, “I was at home by that time....alone,” her eyes lowering to her folded hands. 

 

“When did you leave the morgue?”

 

Her troubled eyes meet his once more as she tried to recount last weeks activity. “My shift ended at seven Wednesday night,” she confirmed.

 

“Then it would have been  _ impossible _ for you to catch the Lincolnshire Special to Spilsby at 6:00pm to murder Birlstone;” he inferred with an arched eyebrow. “It seems you will avoid the gallows at any rate,” adding with a tight smile. His demeanor turned somber, however as he continued to deliberate the broader implications. “Who delivered the note?”

 

“He’s a boy...well, young man –who helps Gideon with the heavy work on the grounds. His name is Toby.”

 

“Does he...know your secret?”

 

“No,” she said pinching the bridge of her nose, “he knows what everyone else knows. I have a cousin named Michael who lives in London...that’s all.”

 

“And fortunately, that’s exactly who he found early this morning?” he asked in a brisk tone.

 

She confirmed with a weary nod and began rubbing her temples in apparent fatigue when Holmes suddenly stood up. “I need facts,” he said, glancing to the mantle clock. “if I leave now I should catch the next train to Lincolnshire.”

 

Watching his energized form exchange the maroon dressing gown for a black frock coat, she slowly rose to her feet, her eyes following the detective as he called downstairs to Mrs. Hudson, then as he hurried into his bedroom to retrieve a ready-packed carpet bag. The landlady appeared just as he rounded back, meeting the two at the threshold.

 

“Your responsibilities at Bart’s?” He asked abruptly, tugging on his leather gloves and top hat.

 

“I informed Stamford I was ill before I came to you.” 

 

“Very good...then I recommend sending further word...you’ve taken a turn for the worse and will be convalescing with a friend. Returning to your lodgings is too great a risk and this will hopefully give us more time, if and when the long nose of the law turns to London. I trust Watson’s old room will accommodate and Mrs. Hudson will help with all other...needs –if they arise.”   

 

As Holmes’ rapid-fire directives sunk in, Molly’s already agitated expression mixed with confusion as her eyes darted between the two souls in front of her. “Wait...I’m to stay here?” 

 

“Obviously,” he stated before turning to the older lady. “If communication is essential, Mrs. Hudson will send your wire to the Firsby station. Otherwise, try your best to be as unobtrusive as possible, while it  _ should _ go without saying that both Doctors Michael and Molly Hooper will remain  _ invisible... _ until my return.” He inclined his head with a tip of his hat, as well as a mischievous smirk and he was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the thoughtful commentary guys! I love every one!  
> Also another big thank you to the wonderful Writingwife83 for the beta reading.  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! \o/
> 
> First a big thank you to the Sherlolly Queen, Writingwife83 for her beta reading. Long live the queen!
> 
> Next a HUGE shout-out to Cassonade, whose comments inspired parts of this chapter. I love getting your thoughts, people. It's amazing how some of them get stuck in my brain!
> 
> Thanks again for all your comments and kudos! They keep me going!
> 
> OK, I'm done...Read on!

Sherlock returned to 221B well past eleven that night. No light illuminated his rooms, save the dwindling flicker of the hearth and the unearthly cast from the full moon. The stillness was preserved by virtue of his natural cat-like efficacy; his coat, hat and bag were deposited with minimal movement or sound. 

 

His active mind, preoccupied with the days events, took no notice of the form curled up on the settee. After pouring a sherry the detective turned to find a sleeping Molly Hooper. 

 

Wrapped in his purple dressing gown, she lay with a copy of the Strand on her stomach. He deduced from the cover that it contained Dr. Watson’s erroneous, if not sympathetic account of his premature death four years prior. 

 

Slowly moving in her direction, he took note of the simple cotton nightgown, borrowed from Mrs. Hudson, under the slightly open dressing gown. Realizing she must have preferred _his_ over his landlady’s overly-frilled and high collared ones, the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Her long hair had been loosened and brushed smooth, the many pins, over a dozen in all, were placed in a dish on the small table beside her. 

 

Totally distracted now by this slumbering woman, he put the glass of sherry down and continued in his observations. She appeared to be in a deep peaceful sleep, in spite of the precarious circumstance that she found herself in; a fact that he couldn’t help but be a bit envious of, considering the constant battle to slow his whirling brain.

 

Perceiving a dark ink stain on the inside of her right thumb, he realized she must have been writing earlier that night. Furthermore he noticed various gray smudges on her left sleeve which caused Holmes’ brow to draw down in thought. 

 

Glancing to his corner laboratory where the flasks, test tube racks, curved retort and burner sat in silhouette, he quietly walked over to the stained desk. Surveying the organized chaos he recognized a particular disturbance on the shelf of archived slides and labeled jars. With piqued curiosity he lit a candle stub and found with a strange pang of delight that the good doctor had been conducting her own research. The open samples, use of the microscope and the sheets of neatly cataloged notations rather obviously presented her own study of tobacco ash, a subject he had commented on a number of years ago.    

 

He turned back to gaze at this Molly Hooper, who looked so vulnerable and small, yet he knew her to be a woman of exceptional inner strength and depth. A woman who was a _new_ acquaintance –at the same time, an old one. Sherlock hadn’t reconciled this paradox, thus far, in the face of her immediate crisis. In this very moment, however, in the hush and tranquility of the room and if he’d dare admit, at the ethereal sight of this enigma of a woman, he wanted to know more.

 

Just then Molly opened her eyes with a start and gasped at the shadowy figure who was backlit from candlelight.

 

“Who–?” she demanded in a hushed tone, still sluggish from sleep.

 

“It’s Holmes –no fear, doctor; you are quite safe,” said he, his voice uncommonly soft to his own ears. 

 

Stepping past her as she sat up, he reclaimed the glass of sherry and settled himself in his chair in front of the fire.

 

“What time is it?” she asked, clearly dazed and rather embarrassed to be found sleeping in his rooms. Wrapping the gown tightly around her body, Molly walked over to the other chair, likely suddenly remembering whose gown she was wearing. It was obvious she never dreamed the man would ever see her in it. Her face colored a rosey pink as she sat down opposite the detective who removed his watch from his waistcoat.

 

“It is precisely 11:35pm,” he replied, returning the timepiece to its pocket and taking a sip of sherry. “Forgive me; would you like a glass yourself?”

 

“Thank you, no,” she muttered, unable to maintain their gaze she looked instead to the hearth, the diminished flame little more than embers.

 

“I didn’t expect you back tonight,” she admitted. Her abashed expression giving way to a mixture of anxiety and hope.

 

Realizing they both were sitting in relative darkness, Holmes lit a small oil lamp that sat between them and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

 

“It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.There was no sense in staying since the only possible person to shed any additional light on the problem was in repose on my couch,” he remarked coldly, but his eyes possessed a certain glint that softened the edge of his tonality.

 

“I see,” she countered, setting her mouth in a hard line, her own troubled eyes brewed with a look of confusion which contradicted her words.

 

Aware of her growing bewilderment Sherlock began recounting his journey to see Inspector Greyson, who although surprised, did not question the detective’s presence, due presumably to the man’s often inscrutable actions. And truth be told, he was internally relieved to have his help. He took no great pleasure at the prospect of arresting Molly Hooper, for he had been acquainted with her household for many a year and without a whisper of a disparaging word, apart from the occasional criticism regarding her unusual pursuits, which he himself had been guilty of. No, _if_ there was a possibility of her innocence, he would do what he could to get to the bottom of it and the objectivity of this London specialist would fit the bill nicely.  

 

Greyson although aware of the peculiarity of the agent used in Birlstone’s death, never seriously considered the connection between Hooper’s scientific endeavors and the murder, epecially without any witnesses to put her at the scene. 

 

That all changed however when the Spilsby constabulary was visited by Cecil James Barker. 

 

According to his damning testimony, he actually _saw_ Miss Hooper at the manor, as he had the weekly custom of a game of cards with the elderly gentleman, every Wednesday evening for the past two years. Surprised to see a tilbury rig outside the rear entrance, which was his usual approach when visiting; he admitted himself, which was also normal due to the lack of his butler that particular night. As he drew near, he said he heard voices coming from the large drawing room. The door being slightly ajar, he saw Doctor Molly Hooper engaged in what appeared to be a heated conversation. He was unable to discern what was said because she had suddenly closed their proximity and had lowered her voice accordingly, but perceived their discourse to be rather belligerent. He took his leave without a word as to not intrude upon them. Barker also mentioned seeing a number of ‘poisons’ at the Bolingbrok home some years ago, many having been derived from bee venom. 

 

From the start of this narrative, Holmes noted a very distinct reaction to the name of this so-called witness. Originally one of shock, it had quickly transformed into fiery anger which gradually increased over the length of the account, resulting in her jumping to her feet, knuckles white from tightly clenched fists. By the time he had finished she had begun to pace in front of him. As the detective arose, she stopped and met his eyes, her nostrils almost flaring from controlled rage. 

 

Abruptly he placed both his hands firmly on her shoulders. Whether it was out of a need to comfort or to restore her sense in order to extract the information he required, she didn’t know, but it did wonders to focus her attention.

 

“Gather yourself, doctor,” he said, dropping his voice. “It is obvious that there is a story to tell. You will need to steady your nerves and reel in your temper. I will not lie, the circumstances seem very black against you, but with your help I will do my best to uncover the truth and get to the bottom of whatever nefarious motives this Mr. Barker has for wanting to see you hang.”

 

Looking up into his shadowed face, her eyes were wide as he spoke. Their dim surroundings limited her visual perception, but his words resonated with a conviction such as she had never heard from the man before. 

 

“Would you be seated once more?” He encouraged, motioning to the chairs.

 

With a small nod she did as he asked, while he stoked the embers with another log before joining her again. The pathologist pressed her hands to her cheeks as she took a deep breath, clearly trying to organize her thoughts into a narration that was concise yet abundant in the small details the detective had often considered the most important. She wisely started with what she knew was the burning and predominant question in his mind.

 

“My family had been acquainted with the Barkers since my mother’s death. Cecil Barker, who was a couple of years my senior, left Lincolnshire for boarding school when I was very young, so I have no memory of him in those days.” She paused, glancing down at her fingers as they slowly twisted the end of the dressing gown belt. “It wasn’t until years later –after returning home with his medical degree, did he try to renew any sort of association with us. I had already received my various degrees and was deeply involved in my toxicology research when he started visiting my father regularly. Before I knew it he had ...well, ingratiated himself.”

 

Looking up to see Sherlock sitting with his legs crossed at the knee; his chin resting on the thumb of his right hand, fingers curled over his upper lip and across his cheekbone, totally absorbed; she pressed on.

 

“You must understand that, while my uncle had an established chair at Cambridge University, my father was the trusted physician of the magnates from the surrounding districts, including Sir Ingilby and Lord Massingberd...a circle of influence that apparently drove Dr Barker to seek my hand in marriage but to also persuade my father into retirement herein transferring the practice to himself.”

 

The glow of the burgeoning flames dancing across her features somehow enhanced the foreboding impression of her words. 

 

“I had always made it plain that I would never marry for anything other than love,” she said tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “So when I made it clear that I did _not_ love this man, the matter was closed in my father’s eyes. But not to Dr Cecil Barker. Instead of letting it go, he doubled his efforts by sending a continuous stream of letters, tokens, flowers –that sort of thing. It was only after threatening him with the exposure of harassment did he stop.”

 

Throughout the account his eyes never once left her tense face, but remained expressionless. At her pause he rose to retrieve some tobacco from a persian slipper that sat on the mantle and after filling his old brier-root pipe, he drew long inhalations as he lit it. Throwing the match into the fire he turned once more to face her, the blue smoke curling around him.

 

After a moment of what she could easily interpret as a critical appraisal of her story, a line appeared between her brows and she lowered her gaze. “There was no understanding between us, Mr. Holmes. ...no promise broken that he should expect–”

 

“No, I’m sure there was not,” he suddenly interjected. “Even _if_ you had, doctor, that is no reason to _bullyrag_ you into something or in this case, _someone_ you didn’t want.”    

 

Lifting her troubled eyes to his, he raised a quizzical eyebrow at her, with crossed arms and dangling pipe, causing Molly’s demeanor to change considerably.

 

“Thank you for saying so, Mr. Holmes”, she responded, a faint smile gracing the corners of her mouth, easing her strained countenance. “It was during this time that we perceived a definite hardening towards the idea of my ever taking on my father's duties. Whether it was due to any acrimonious influence on Dr. Barker’s part, we could never say for sure, but it soon became very clear that, as a woman I would never be able to practice medicine without impediment by virtue of my sex alone. It was then that both my father and uncle set their minds on creating for me a double life.”

 

“Quite so,” he said. seating himself once more, leaning forward, pipe in hand and elbows on his knees. “Furthermore we can be _unquestionably_ sure that Cecil James Barker knows nothing of this life, or he would have certainly ruined you long ago.”

 

“It is just...beyond words. To be so...consumed,” her voice sank almost to a whisper. 

 

“Well, this injury, as he considers it, had festered in his scheming brain and he hungered for vengeance. I have known individuals to kill for considerably less.”

 

Suddenly there was a haunted look in her eyes, one that stirred something deep in his chest and he reacted as a man called to action, springing to his feet, he bounded over to his cluttered desk and proceeded to hastily scrawl some communication. “I see that you’ve been following your own analysis,” he asserted over his shoulder, to the woman behind him.

 

“O-oh, yes! Sorry, I um…” Realizing at once what he was alluding to, she attempted to stammer out some explanation.

 

“Let’s dispense with the elucidation, doctor. My comment is not a criticism. I understand that you are essentially a prisoner here, without any of the usual mental stimulus you are accustomed to.” 

 

Finishing his note he abruptly turned and loomed over her, his eyes intense with meaning as he spoke. “I know what stagnation and idleness can do to an active mind. You may feel free to use my home as it is your own.” 

 

He circled around her to throw on his coat and made for the door before turning back to the petite pathologist who was looking slightly dazed. 

 

“Although, I _do_ have it on good authority that dear Mrs. Hudson frowns upon discharging a firearm indoors,” he said with a small enigmatic smile, his eyes glinting in the moonlight before taking his leave once more that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't despise the Sherlolly lite chapter, I'm with you! I'm SOoo ready for some Sherlolly feels...real soon! LOL
> 
> Thanks for reading my lovelies and don't be shy!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I want to shout a BIG THHHANK YOUUUU to the amazing and the fabulous Writingwife83 for all her awesome suggestions, help and direction…particularly with my wild and wooly POV digressions! She’s got the patience of a saint, that one!
> 
> Second, this is shorter than usual, but I'm hoping the distinctively higher feels factor will make up for its brevity. Our Sherlolly train is starting to pick up a little speed and there’s no turning back now or slowing down for that matter! So sit back and enjoy the ride! 
> 
> And don’t forget to comment, if you can. They keep the ol’ engine stoked!

 

Mycroft was needed and the matter required immediate action. 

 

If Sherlock’s letter was personally delivered, it’s urgency would be presumed and he’d have data on Barker by morning’s light. 

 

London skies were clear and the chilled nocturnal air worked to untangle the jumbled assault that invaded his mind palace. He needed to think. After handing off his communication to his brother’s man, Sherlock walked from Smith Square to Victoria Embankment, then back to Baker Street with a slight detour through Regent Park, taking almost 2 hours, during which he calculated his next move.

 

He knew Molly had retired to her room the moment he closed the door behind him. It was probably for the best, considering the late hour. His body had begun to betray him with a wave of fatigue as he removed his coat and hat. But inasmuch as he was physically weary, his mind was still racing with all the complexity of the problem. 

 

He knew the potential disaster for Doctor Hooper if he failed to prove her innocence. The necessity to reveal her double identity would end her career; no doubt. 

 

He was also quite aware of the injury to his _own_ profession. He had silently considered her skills second to none. They had developed over the past 3 years a type of consonance between them, which was rare. While John was more of a _conductor_ of light, Molly was illuminous in her own unique fashion. It would be a loss. 

 

The idea needled him in a way that left him uneasy. But not in necessarily the same manner that a devious puzzle could or worse, the commonplace, featureless crimes which were by far the most difficult to analyze. The prospect of _this_ failure provoked a disturbance so alien, so strange that he promptly took up his violin and lost himself in chords that were both expressive and melancholy.

 

* * *

 

 

She tossed and turned in the unfamiliar bed from the very moment she laid her head upon it. The room was more than adequate in providing for her comforts, but her state of mind had preempted any sort of lasting restfulness.

 

She relit her lamp, surrendering all hope of sleep, when suddenly there was the noise of Holmes’ return downstairs. For a moment she sat up, perfectly still, listening for anything further. At hearing only silence she slid herself back under the confines of the blankets along with a borrowed book. 

 

A second later, out of the stillness, she heard low, mesmerizing strains of a violin that sent shivers down her spine. Her eyes grew large as the sound came to her in waves of tenderness and agony.

 

Almost instinctively she left her bed and padded to the door, opening it without a sound. She stood entranced, listening as the music flowed up to caress her soul. Indifferent to the chill of the hallway air, she found herself moving down the stairs, as if pulled by a magnetic force. 

 

In an instant she was poised in the doorway, transfixed by what she saw. At that late hour the moon had shifted, so it shone directly into the flat. There was the back of Holmes, facing the warmth of the fire, his face hidden, but as he played there was such gripping vulnerability that she felt as if she were seeing him for the first time –a stirring eloquence of deep yearning...a side _he_ had always considered detrimental to pure reason. The defect which he called sentiment could be unmistakably identified in the chords that filled the shadowed room.   

 

Early in their acquaintance, when she realized her feelings for this infuriating genius, she entombed them so deep that they had no hope of ever flourishing into anything more than a professional regard…she wouldn’t let it go further. It was just one more of life’s paths not followed. 

 

But now…as she beheld the man, in this private moment of total exposure and unveiling, all barriers fell to dust. And inasmuch as the alarms of self-preservation were sounding in her head she couldn’t bring herself to turn around or back away. 

 

Instead...she took another step.

 

* * *

 

 

As the bow moved across strings, all the tumultuous thoughts began to moderate as he gave himself over to the affect of the music. While his relentless brain slowed he felt the release of something that had been chained long ago, something inside him that slept undetected and unmoved until this very moment. The legato grew with fervent intensity then melted softly into the expressivity of smoldering embers –causing a frisson of pleasure that was unexpected and foreign to him–mind and body alike.

 

Suddenly he was aware of a presence; whether he had actually heard someone, he was unsure; but just past the threshold stood Molly, a vision of unearthly loveliness, her long nightdress glowing white in the moonlight. When he turned to see this sight, so beautiful and unexpected, it quite literally took his breath away. 

 

The air between them electrified as their eyes locked together. Slowly lowering his arms to his sides they remained stock-still for what seemed to be an eternity. Her unfeigned gaze had enveloped him and he became aware that it was the very reflection of his own. The realization was so startling that he abruptly whirled around, his back to her once more, with his eyes squeezed shut.

 

“ I- I apologize, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered, her voice small and colored with what sounded like shame, causing Sherlock to turn his head in profile. “Forgive my intrusion at this late…” 

 

“You have _not_ done so,” he broke in with a deep rumble, facing her once more as he took a step closer. “You have nothing to...you’ve done nothing wrong,” he added in a gentler tone, his blinking downcast eyes and shadowy face angled towards the moonlit window.

 

In relief she exhaled the shaky breath that she’d obviously been holding, which brought his eyes back to hers again for a split second. This created a sudden spark- a pull so unsettling, it prompted him to fully turn toward the window once more, relinquishing violin and bow to the table beside him.

 

He stood there, floundering, unsure whether he should silently stay as he was, which would likely result in her retreat, or whether he should face her, speak to her...move closer to her. If he did, he was almost certain she would stay. In fact, something deep and instinctive told him that’s exactly what she wanted. The thought triggered a tightening in his stomach and he felt his heart rate rise slightly. Frowning at this very obvious physical reaction, his mind had to finally surrender to the fact that this woman mattered to him and in a way that was different from any of his other associations. 

 

As this truth impressed upon his consciousness, his thoughts began to race. _She should stay... just for a bit longer. Perhaps with an offering of a glass of wine, or…_

 

“I will leave you now, Mr. Holmes,” he heard her say in a soft voice, interrupting his musings. “I only wished to find the source of the beautiful music...now I know.” 

 

She stood by his side; her warm brown eyes contrasted in silver radiance as she looked up in earnest; her words and proximity catching him off-guard. 

 

The crinkle on his forehead deepened as his gaze dropped to her face and wandered over it. “Of course, the hour is very late,” he responded, blinking several times before continuing. “By morning I will have a report from my brother Mycroft concerning our Mr Cecil Barker. It is my hope that a little prodding into his affairs will shed some much needed light and the villain will be revealed.”

 

“I see,” she said, before her expression clouded in sudden concern. “Mr. Holmes, would it be within your power to persuade Inspector Greyson to release poor Gideon? Inasmuch as he would never admit to any hardship, I know this all must be destructive to his health and I’m sure Anna’s sick with worry.”

 

As he considered what she asked he inwardly marveled at her concern for others in the face of such personal crisis. 

 

“Let the weight of the matter rest with me now, and do not dwell upon it. I’ll do my best to persuade the inspector of his innocence. Meanwhile you must remain here and occupy yourself the best you can. Trust me when I say that the _truth_ will be revealed and justice will be served, one way or another.”

 

Her eyes glowed as she listened to his words of comfort.

 

“I am quite in your hands, Mr Holmes,” she said sincerely; turning languidly with a gentle smile and a nod, she left the room, closing the door behind her. 

 

* * *

 

 

Her back to the door, she stood for a moment in the chill of the dim hallway, warmed by their astonishing and completely unexpected encounter. As she ascended to her room her mind began to consider all that had just happened. 

 

By the time she was back underneath the blankets however, she wondered if perhaps she had _imagined_ those intangible impressions she was sure of an instant before; they being in such opposition to the man’s exaltation of all that was pure reason. Apart from the fact that she had _only_ been allowed to see that singlar side of him, thus far. Yes, he had shown considerable mercy and understanding upon learning her secret and if she ever questioned the depths of Holmes’ loyalty as a friend, she should wonder no longer, for indeed, there is no doubt he was giving his best to help her…to save her. 

 

But hadn't she felt something more? 

 

His music _alone_ attested to a fervent honesty of emotion that stirred her soul to its core. It was in fact, the very thing that drew her downstairs without a moment’s hesitation. She’s witnessed a profoundly _deeper_ side to the detective, one she never dreamed could have existed. 

 

It was this very fact she pondered in her heart, along with a hopeful prospect that perhaps _more_ such surprises were to come. It was with these thoughts and the vivid memory of the hauntingly intimate strains of his violin that she faded into a deep sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Writingwife83 for hanging in there with me. I found this one a bit tricky! Hope you all enjoy and please review!

The two men rose from their seats and shook hands in agreement. 

 

“I’ll be taking you at your word, Mr. Holmes and trusting you won’t have me regretting that decision. Gideon Ames is free to go, but must remain confined to his home. I didn’t much relish keeping the ol’ man here –him being a bit fragile and all. Produce this new evidence, sir, and we’ll be ready to make the arrest."

 

The detective was careful to keep any connection between he and ‘the doctors Hooper’ from the discussion, revealing only the dubious validity of the witness testimony and the equally questionable _character_ of said witness, all of which came to light with a little digging.

 

Upon hearing this, the Inspector’s brows drew up in surprise with a touch of chagrin, since the _official_ investigation did not probe Barker’s claims, nor did they make inquiries regarding the man’s rectitude, a point that was not referred to by either party. Wisely so.

 

Instead Holmes left Spilsby with Gideon in a borrowed horse and trap, his promise to the petite pathologist discharged, as he had secured the elder Ames’ freedom. The fact seemed to warm him with a certain satisfaction that he promptly detached himself from.

 

Anna had flung open the door and ran out to meet them, her hands over her mouth, presumably overcome with emotion as Sherlock pulled the horse to a stop. The homecoming was joyous, but brief as they immediately sat in the kitchen and talked only of the case, as the couple had not been informed of the details regarding Cecil Barker. Not unnaturally, they were quite affected and added some disturbing details to Molly’s somewhat vague account of his attentions turned harassment, all which did nothing to improve the detective’s opinion of the man.

 

“I do my best, Mr. Holmes to live peaceably with all folk, to keep my tongue from mischief ‘n strife. But this man brought out such ire in my bones that I feared I’d do something I’d live to regret,” the old man admitted, dragging his large rough hand over his face.

 

Meanwhile, Toby had been hovering in the background, having stopped his work upon Gideon’s return and was moved almost to tears at the sight of him. He listened, standing quietly with a hot mug of tea. 

 

Although not having much dealings with Molly directly, she was always very pleasant when they crossed paths. Mr. Ames had always spoken of her with great love and respect, in almost a fatherly way. The young man seemed confused at the idea of this Cecil Barker accusing his mistress of such a heinous crime. 

 

But it wasn’t until Holmes mentioned the bee venom, the actual agent of death, did Toby’s heart began to race. 

 

“E-excuse me sir,” he interrupted in halting trepidation, his mouth suddenly dry as three pairs of eyes fixed on his troubled face, Sherlock immediately walking over to him expectedly, sensing he had something important to say.

 

“It's just that I noticed the door yesterday...the door that’s never used…”

 

Gideon and Anna both rose from their seats and joined the detective’s side, the three staring at the flustered lad. 

 

“–Where the Miss keeps all her medicines ‘n such.” Toby looked to Gideon beseechingly before the old man let out a cry of alarm as he grasped his meaning. 

 

Turning abruptly and motioning for all to follow, he explained as they walked toward the west wing of the house, that in the years of her father's active practice his office and consulting room had its own vestibule, admitting his patients off the road and acted as a small waiting room. 

 

When Molly turned this area into her laboratory, the vestibule was fitted floor-to-ceiling with shelves and became storage for all her archived experiments, specimens and medicines, a type of large walk-in apothecary cabinet, lined with jars, boxes and draws, all labeled and organized. The door had been locked and forgotten about. Outside, the Ivy and roses had been allowed to partially overgrow the entry, almost obscuring it from view.

 

And it was yesterday afternoon Toby noticed while weeding, that this very door had been breached, the lock broken away.

 

Sherlock rushed over, grabbing an oil lamp from the table and continued to inspect the area thoroughly, giving not-so-subtle indications that he was onto something.

 

“YES, yes! Very good!” He grinned, his eyes glittering with excitement, whirling around to face his stunned audience. “There is a distinct possibility that evidence may still be found, as with certain egomaniacal personalities, the idea of exposure is hardly imaginable. I think we advance, but the goal is nevertheless afar and there is much work yet to do.”

 

“Can I help you, Mr Holmes?” asked Toby, his eyes wide and eager. 

 

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked a bit before answering. “Your discovery has helped already – saving me precious time, but I must venture alone.”

 

“Regardless of that, sir –you will have a warm bed, if you find yourself in need,” Anna said with a soft, but firm motherly tone.

 

“Thank you,” he nodded in agreement. “Later I _may_ find myself requiring that very thing.” 

 

He started back to the front of the house, talking over his shoulder, the trio following at his heels. 

 

“I will, however, from this moment on, disclaim that you’ve had any knowledge of my future actions, for your own protection. We do not wish to give the inspector any reason to come looking for you again.” 

 

Before reaching the door the detective quickly turned to Gideon and spoke in a lower tone. “Currently my attire is not enabling me to... _blend_ into my country surroundings. The availability of your wardrobe, sir, would aid me considerably.” 

 

* * *

 

The late afternoon light deepened into amber hues as the detective rode along the country lane bringing him closer to the Barker residence. Still smartly dressed in city clothes, his planned disguise bundled under the trap’s seat , he grew increasingly impatient with the length of his travels and urged the horse into a quicker trot. 

 

Originally from Parney village, just north of Spilsby, Molly’s old acquaintance had moved to the small hamlet of Bag Enderby, 6 miles westward, presumably to be more centrally located to the great houses of Harrington and Somersby, where he _did_ manage to secure an assistant position with the aging physician of these old family seats until gaining the practice some 6 years ago. 

 

Since then, according to Mycroft's information, Barker had been deeply embroiled for years in high-stakes gambling with Lincolnshire's aristocratic oligarchy, which went far in explaining his rather extravagant lifestyle on the comparatively humble salary of a country doctor. His brother also provided some little-known ‘goings-on’ among Barker’s peers of varied social composition, which gave the detective a particular angle of approach in putting the man at ease

 

He pulled up in front of what was called Ferndale Manor, a moderately sized house, at least three hundred years old, with two extensions, one of which had been fairly recent, larger than Hooper’s Bolinbroke cottage, but was lacking all the warmth. 

 

Before he knew it, after being announced, he found himself sitting across from Cecil James Barker in an overly ornate drawing room. 

 

He was average and forgettable in physical appearance as any man he had ever met, but with an air of pretentiousness about him that impressed, establishing in Holmes’ mind of his considerable talents as a flimflammer. 

 

Introduced as William Scott, barrister, advocate and friend to nobility and gentry alike; he was doing his bit, coming in from London to sort out the loose ends, since Birlstone was formerly an attorney and a member of the House of Commons back in his day. 

 

Explaining further that Sir Inglby and others were hoping for a conscientious, but swift resolution to the case, insisting the matter needed special care. 

 

 _‘Scott’_ also made it clear that he was highly sympathetic upon hearing the appalling circumstances involved with his death.

 

“We were all quite shocked when word came from Dr. Warren,” he said in a slightly bombastic manner. “The very idea of a man like Douglas Birlstone associating with this _Hooper_ person...a woman of questionable pursuits to say the very least, I’m sure.”

 

Barker’s increasingly haughty expression told Sherlock that he succeeded in disarming him. Then Holmes began lavishing him with compliments about the Manor, which resulted in the man enthusiastically showing him all the recent improvements and talking about it’s history.

 

As they walked he was finding it increasingly difficult to stomach Barker’s condescension and snobbery as he shamelessly venerated the elite while disparaging the plebeians among them. 

 

The detective inquired after his work as a doctor, even as far as suggesting a referral to a wealthy acquaintance, just to steer the man towards locations of possible incrimination. 

 

After what seemed to be the longest 20 minutes of his life, they found themselves outside, finishing up a quick tour of the grounds. In the process, they walked past various workers, never a word passing between them and their master. But within the brief side-glances there emanated a level of resentment that was palpable, at least in Sherlock’s view, communicating that this was _not_ a happy household.  

 

With his horse and trap coming into view as they strolled, he was quite satisfied that he’d learned all he could under the circumstances; he’d begun to tune out the doctor’s endless twaddle _until_ he heard the name – _Molly Hooper._

 

Initially Holmes was pleased by his good fortune –a suspect talking on his own accord, possibly saying something that he could use against him. 

 

This view, however, quickly evaporated as his blather took on an explicitly derogatory tone.

 

…”of course, I say these things not from any _personal_ interaction with the woman, but rather from her sordid reputation which has long been established.”

 

Unconsciously Sherlock’s jaw clenched as he listened in silence to his lies. He knew from all his recent inquiries, and certainly from his own personal experiences with Doctor Hooper, Micheal or Molly; the _truth_ was to the contrary.

 

But Mr Barker did not stop there.

 

“I had often wondered,” he alleged, “–to Douglas and to others, how this _woman_ could have acquired such a marked position professionally. _Well..._ to my amazement he insinuated some rather vulgar reasons, _so_ indelicate, I blush to repeat them. I will, however, in the cause of justice, be willing to expose her for my poor friend’s sake.”

 

At this last statement, Holmes stopped short, just yards away from his carriage; his face carefully passive and devoid of all expression. 

 

This caused Barker to stop also, a couple of paces in front of him; turning to see him mute and staring blankly, he took it as a sign of interest. The man continued, stepping back into his personal space and speaking in a low, conniving manner that made the detective’s skin crawl. 

 

“ _Apparently_ , years ago Birlstone found himself in, let us say...a _compromised_ position. The little whore persuaded him to use his influence to open doors, _like_ the Spilsby constabulary for instance and who knows how many other _favors_ enabled her to be taken seriously. He told me that he had enough. She had become increasingly demanding of him and he planned to bring the whole affair to light, thus breaking her hold over him. It was then she must have concocted this plan to kill him, using the poisons…” 

 

Without warning Sherlock grabbed Barker’s foppish coat by the lapels, and pulled him nose to nose; his eyes flashed menacingly at a suddanly stunned and cringing man.  

 

But Holmes recovered himself, instantly adjusting to the situation with an air of lofty reproach. 

 

“I must take you to task, my man. _Regardless_ of the so-called hear-say surrounding this lady doctor ...she is still a _lady_. A true _gentleman_ would mind his tongue,” he rebuked in a quick and measured tone. Releasing him immediately, he walked back to his carriage, yanking at the edge of his gloves with indignation. 

 

Barker blinked at him rapidly, clearly humbled..“Y-yes, of course,” he stuttered, following at his heels. “I apologize. I was carried away by my feelings…”

 

He glanced back with a distinctly appeased expression before climbing into his trap and taking the horse’s reins from the waiting groom.

 

“I too apologize for my outburst. This whole affair has been very trying, to say the least. I look forward to calling on your hospitality again...under more pleasant circumstances,” he added with a tight smile.

 

This had the desired effect and Mr Cecil Barker almost breathed a literal sigh of relief before bidding him farewell.

 

* * *

 

The golden light had deepened into a dusky purple as the sun disappeared behind a grove of fir-trees. Traveling back toward the village, he was oblivious to the beauty of his surroundings, totally preoccupied with the emotional outburst _while_ he was incognito; a rare blunder indeed. 

 

Did this _Molly Hooper_ matter so very much to him? Even if this lapse _was_ for a brief moment, It was still cause to ask the question: what exactly was going on between he and the petite pathologist? 

 

Facing a long night ahead before he could take action, he’d have time to sort things out...to make sure he was clear-minded and in complete control.

 

Passing a thicket that skirted the lane he veered off and dismounted his rig, leading the horse toward a peaceful clearing that was both obscured from the road and the house. He quickly changed into his workman disguise and settled down to wait for the cover of darkness.

 

Examining all data with the most dispassionate and scientific analysis he was capable of, he came up with these conclusions: 

 

_She was more than a client, more than an acquaintance, more than a friend._

 

It was this _last_ conclusion that caused his pulse to quicken and a strange nervousness to invade his stomach.

 

As he considered his situation, he realized that proving her innocence weighed heavier on him now than it had since that very morning. The urgency to save her from this man’s vengeful schemes only mounted after their meeting and the thought that _he_ would be the one to do it both motivated and grounded him, bringing him to a place of quiet determination as he sat...and waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking there will only be about 2 more chapters left, so the Sherlolly feels will start coming together very soon!
> 
> Oh, and I'm now on tumblr! Come say hello!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all my lovelies! 
> 
> Yes, I'm finally updating this fiction! My sincere apologies for essentially taken an unintentional hiatus. It's been so difficult to fit it into my crazy schedule! 
> 
> That being said, this next chapter has been cut into two because of it's ridiculous length...so you will be getting 2 chapters within a weeks time! 
> 
> And lastly but NOT leastly...A HUGE EXTRA LONG THANK YOU to Writingwife83!!! You've been SOOOooo very awesome with all your help!!!
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

 

As  _Michael_  Hooper, it was not something she had ever admitted to, when acting as a man. 

 

Her natural tendency to share her thoughts and feelings were inhibited for the sake of her alter ego. So when she first met Sherlock Holmes and became familiar with his extraordinary methods, she did her best to hide any overt admiration for his genius. 

 

She was highly skilled in her own right, but when she quietly began incorporating a more finely tuned level of observation, considering _everything_ important, even the seemingly insignificant and pairing that with her medical knowledge, she started seeing things she had never noticed, making correlations she had previously overlooked. 

 

For that reason, when Molly saw a small volume that contained his deductions regarding the influence of a trade upon the form of the hand, with lithotypes of the hands of slaters, sailors, cork cutters, compositors, weavers, and diamond-polishers, she set herself to work.

 

Using her little-known, yet exceptional drawing abilities, she began painstakingly reproducing each hand, knowing the value it would bring to her reference library and perhaps in the identification of unclaimed bodies. 

 

It was amid this absorbing project that she failed to hear footsteps on the landing outside the door. Not until the distinct sound of a man clearing his throat did her concentration break and she found herself face to face with a stunned Doctor Watson.

 

* * *

 

In the threshold he stood riveted, staring at the back of a woman with long auburn tresses who wore what he knew to be Holmes’ purple dressing gown. She sat at the table, among a scattering of papers and a tray of forgotten tea, deeply engaged in whatever occupied her, making her totally unaware of his presence.

 

Completely gobsmacked at the sight, he eventually came to himself and cleared his throat in an attempt to get her attention. 

 

On her feet in an instant, the lady whirled about with an expression of fear that immediately morphed into shocked recognition...on _both_ their faces.

 

In spite of the fact that the detective had always chided him for an apparent inability to deduce from what he saw, John _knew_ from the moment he laid eyes on her who she was, or more importantly, who she was _not_.

 

“I think I’m _supposed_ to say...you must be the _cousin_ , Molly Hooper,”  Watson said in a low voice. “But both you and I know that’s not quite true. I’ve yet to make that lady’s  acquaintance, though your _eyes_ tell me that you know me... _Micheal_ Hooper.”

 

Molly’s wide eyes became even larger as his words sank in and she searched his face before taking a step closer. His jaw was set in a confrontational manner, but his eyes were filled with understanding. The John Watson she knew was fair-minded and honorable, so she once again took the gamble.

 

“Truth be told doctor, I _am_ this Molly Hooper that you’ve recently heard of. It is Michael that’s the obvious fiction,” she said, extending her hand with a smile. “And I’ve now taken you into my confidence.”

 

“Along with Holmes and Mrs. Hudson, I gather,” he countered, warmly clasping her hand in friendship.

 

“Yes, my small band of secret-keepers has grown considerably since my crisis.” 

 

“Crisis?” John’s eyes flickered with curiosity as she motioned him to sit with her by the fire.

 

For the next two hours Molly revealed much of her double-life and the dilemma that threatened to bring it all to a dramatic end.

 

* * *

 

He’d be lying if he said that his body didn’t ache slightly from fatigue while extricating himself from the cab that stopped outside of 221B. The Lincolnshire train arrived in London a little past 4 and he was fortunate to secure a hansom when he did, as the street traffic was heavy at that time of day.

 

Sherlock quickly entered and shut the front door behind him, noting Mrs. Hudson’s absence, fancying she was occupied, most likely with the local grocer at this hour. 

 

While ascending the stairs he was distracted by a sudden return of nervousness in his stomach, unaware of a low murmur of voices _until_ he was just outside the closed door. 

 

Making the hasty assumption that his landlady and pathologist were sharing their afternoon tea, he abruptly entered the room and stood stunned for a moment at the unexpected sight.

 

There was Molly Hooper and John Watson, sitting cozily opposite each other before a warm fire. And from what he could quickly deduce, they had been so for a rather long time. Were those chairs always _that_ close to each other, he wondered...all in a split second, before the two friends both turned and stood simultaneously, sharing the same shocked expression. 

 

“You’re back!” they blurted in unison.

 

“Obviously,” Holmes retorted, his own surprise altering from the immediate assault of an emotion he had never experienced before. 

 

Although he felt no concern for Molly’s safety, which attested to the deep trust he had in the army doctor, the strange feeling caused the skin between his eyes to crinkle in bewilderment, briefly addling his brain before he began to process the deeper implications of the scene. 

 

The fact that Molly Hooper was again clothed in his dressing gown brought a ruddiness to the tips of the detective’s ears. He considered the two wine glasses and a half empty bottle next to them. He observed that Watson had removed his coat along with the gray bowler and stood (rather informally he thought) in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. His friend had smoked 3 cigarettes, the ends marked ‘Bradley Oxford Street’ with the distinctive ash of the Arcadia mixture he prefered...all pointed to a visit of at least two hours long. 

 

Disregarding the odd visceral reaction before any data analysis, his expression turned into one more detached.

 

“I believe I can surmise, Doctor Hooper,” he said as his gaze settled on her, “that you’ve told all?”

 

“Actually,” Molly studied his face briefly before continuing. “Dr. Watson _deduced_ who I was before I could say a word.”

 

His cool gaze suddenly clouded as it shifted to the somewhat amused Watson, whose mustache quirked in a side smirk. John’s eyebrows lifted while rocking slowly on his heels, almost daring his friend to respond. There was something else in John’s expression as well...something that fueled his amusement beyond the pride in his deduction. It caused Sherlock to swallow thickly and look away, avoiding the unusually discerning gaze of his friend.

 

“I see…”

 

“In truth, Holmes... it’s all rather ironic.”

 

“Ironic?”

 

“Yes... I came here to tell you that I ran into Stamford and he told me that Michael Hooper was seriously ill. He hadn't heard from him in quite some time, which was uncharacteristic of his habits, so…”

 

“So you came around to inform me of the fact, in order to track down the ailing pathologist,” the detective interrupted in a slightly sardonic tone.

 

“And in doing so, I’m quite pleased to find said pathologist to be far from ailing under your _commendably warm_ hospitality.”

 

Sherlock shot him a brief but piercing glare, which seemed only to prolong John’s obvious delight, indicating that the good doctor was most assuredly enjoying himself at Holmes’ expense. 

 

Keenly aware that _another_ pair of eyes were upon him while removing his hat and coat, the detective’s attention went immediately to the pipe and Persian slipper which sat on top of the mantle. 

 

After packing it in silence, he slowly, with a pair of tongs, pulled out a piece of glowing coal from the hearth to light it. Feeling the weight of their suspense and burgeoning annoyance from the man with the heavy mustache, he turned to face them, puffing vigorously on the old calabash.

 

Molly’s eyes were bright with hope as she scanned his features. “Have we progressed at all, Mr. Holmes? Do you have anything to report?”

 

With a demeanor that could have been construed as aloof, Sherlock reached inside his breast pocket and removing a small slip of paper; he handed it to her with a slight bow.

 

Taking the sheet and quickly skimming it’s contents, her forehead wrinkled, perplexed at first from what she read. An instant later a look of incredulity appeared which soon altered into an expression of sheer joy, resulting in Molly spontaneously jumping into the detective’s arms! 

 

Instinctively his large hands encircled her, both suspended in the moment; she, quite literally off her feet and he, overwhelmed by his senses.

 

Fortunately, John had a perfect perspective of Sherlock’s face as he held her and it was certainly one of shock. But there was, without question, something else in his eyes.

 

However before he could make a final determination, Molly suddenly released him and turned to Watson in a deep blush.

 

“It’s...it’s a warrant of arrest! No, not for me…” she said, acknowledging his obvious confusion, “...but for Cecil Barker!”

 

The pathologist whirled around to face Holmes again, gazing up at him with such elation and relief that the detective couldn’t help but smile broadly at her.

 

“How on earth did you do it?” She asked breathlessly, her eyes filled with unrestrained admiration.

 

Motioning them to the settee, he sank back into his chair, laid the pipe on the side table and steepled his fingers in front of him before beginning his explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me too much for cutting it off here! 
> 
> Our detective has a lot to say and all will be revealed very soon.
> 
> Please ease my mind and let me know if you're still with me and if you've enjoyed this latest update! 
> 
> Cheers!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, my lovelies! A week already?! So as I promised...Sherlock has a story to tell. Let's get to it, shall we? A big thank you, as always to Writingwife83 for all her extensive help and direction! See you on the bottom! Enjoy!

“I arrived in Spilsby early; my first order of business –to sort things out with the Inspector, along with the release of Mr. Ames. Having accomplished both ends, as Greyson was good enough to agree to my rather loose plan; I made several calculated gambles that at least one member of Barker’s household would aid in my cause. 

 

Cecil Barker did himself no favors when alienating those under his employ, for as Providence would have it, the very man who had been glaring at Barker during my earlier visit, was indeed my sole witness, as I would find out later. 

 

There were several possibilities as to the location of the missing venom. Disguised as a workman for several days, I prepared myself for all such scenarios, including the act of burgling Ferndale Manor, if need be… something Greyson of course, could not do without a warrant. 

 

Following the murder, I had deduced that Barker would most likely have disposed of the bottle and syringe either on the road returning home, or in the privacy of his own property. And reasoning he would fear exposure from the public road, coupled with the probability that his own narcissism would blind him to the very idea of suspicion, he would discard the evidence in the first place possible...his own stables. 

 

Where would he most likely have such an opportunity? Inside the immense rubbish pit of the smithy, of course. 

 

Assuming all were sleeping at that hour, the scheming doctor would rid himself of the stash under the many layers of old nails, horseshoes and broken glass. 

 

He didn’t however, count on one of his grooms lounging at the other end of the horse stalls, watching him steal into his own stables like a thief; a fact I learned after taking my riskiest wager.

 

Under the guise of a newly-hired hand, I engaged in conversation with this groom. We talked at great length and subsequently convinced of the man’s integrity, I revealed to him my true identity and my hunt. The gamble paid off when I learned that my supposition was correct and in the pit was the secreted venom bottle and syringe. 

 

I rendezvoused with Greyson at the public-house according to plan, bringing the groom with me. After the man told his story and with much discussion, it was agreed that as it stood, the case against Barker was flimsy at best… standing alone on the word of a disgruntled servant. 

 

With this in mind, it was determined that a ruse was in order; something that would expose his villainy and prove that he alone carried the evidence to that very spot…a proof that would remove all doubt that Barker was Birlstone’s murderer.   

 

Crafting a letter of blackmail filled with threat and forebodings, revealing in no uncertain terms that there was in fact, a witness to his crime, we sealed and addressed it to the doctor and stealthily slipped it under the door of the tradesmen’s entrance of the manor. 

 

Knowing it would, most likely be discovered and delivered within the hour, I returned to the stable. While outside, the inspector was tucked away in a shadowy corner. Ensconcing myself under an adjacent haystack with an overview of the rubbish pit; we waited.

 

Two and a half hours had passed before I heard footsteps approaching the stable door. And when it opened, the moon shone across the relative darkness, illuminating the smithy as Barker moved to retrieve the damning vile and needle. But it wasn’t until I saw the glint of them in his hand did I take action…”

 

_Suddenly the detective sprung out from the gloom, causing Barker to spin around and stagger backwards from the unexpected sound, his face reflecting the shock of being discovered._

 

_He gapped at the disheveled workman who pitched off the hay that hung about his shoulders, still anonymous under the flat cap that obscured his features._

 

_Barker’s stupor quickly turned to anger as he stepped forward, thrusting the contents of his hand into his trouser pocket._

 

_“How dare you leap at me in such a manner! I’m the master of this house. W-who are you and what do you want here?!” he shrilled, his face pinched with anxiety and rage._

 

_Straightening to his full stature, Sherlock also advanced, removing his hat to reveal a vaguely familiar face with a steely, triumphant glitter in his eyes._

 

_Shock returned to Barker’s face, which morphed into a confused horror as he gazed at the man in front of him._

 

_“You have good reason to be disordered in your mind, Cecil James Barker,” the detective stated in a carefully modulated voice. “...your plot, while having shades of cleverness to it, degraded much too quickly into petty revenge...at least from my viewpoint. But it is indeed fortunate for the lady’s sake, that your charade should come so swiftly to an end.”_

 

_As the full meaning of his words began to dawn, the doctor’s body seemed to recoil and his hands balled into fists._

 

_“Scott!…” he spat, as he would an oath._

 

_“Not quite… it’s Holmes, Sherlock Holmes… actually.”_

 

_His eyes went round at this revelation before darkening with fury and in an instant he erupted, rushing at him like a bull._

 

“He was on me with more viciousness than I originally attributed to him, but was able to cut him down with a straight left, resulting in the man falling on the syringe that was in his pocket, containing not enough venom to kill, but certainly enough to bring… let’s say a bit of immediate retribution. It was all perfectly delicious.” 

 

His two friends sat spellbound from his tale, utterly at a loss for words. 

 

Silently delighted with the effect, the detective reclaimed his pipe and sat back in satisfaction, blue smoke curling out from the half smirk that spread to the corner of his mouth. 

 

“Then I assume after this short melodrama, an arrest was made?” Watson prompted, breaking the silence.

 

“Indeed...Greyson was on his man the moment I blew the police whistle, which was our agreed signal. At the station it didn’t take long before the cold reality of his position brought Barker to his senses and he gave a full confession with the hope of escaping the noose.” 

 

“Why did he do it, Mr. Holmes? Revenge upon me is clear enough, but why would he kill Douglas Birlstone in the first place?” Molly questioned, her brown eyes wide with interest.

 

“It was because Birlstone had apparently learned Barker had been cheating at the card games they partnered in at the various clubs. After some inquiries Mycroft learned that the older man had intended to speak to him privately about withdrawing or he would expose him. By all appearances Birlstone was unaware that his exclusion from the clubs would prove Barker’s ruin, who lived his extravagant lifestyle through his ill-gotten gains. 

 

The doctor hatched his plan, robbed Bolingbroke House of the venom, and then killed the man that very Wednesday, knowing the servants would be absent. To divert any suspicion in _his_ direction because of those weekly visits, his plan involved casting himself as the only eye-witness to Doctor Hooper’s presence and together with the _almost_ damning cause of death, he mistakenly thought his position irreproachable.”

 

“And perhaps it would have been, if it were not for you, Mr. Holmes,” Molly said in a much softer voice. “The choice between a murder trial or the ruination of my life and profession was not a very pleasant one. That would have been my fate, if not for your intervention.”

 

Her expression was almost neutral, but her eyes glowed with gratitude, admiration and perhaps even... affection? 

 

This last observation brought a sudden warmth to his cheeks and he turned to walk over to the tea tray that sat on the table. Although he knew the teapot had turned cold long ago, he went through the motions of pouring himself a cup all the same, which spurred the pathologist to action. 

 

“Mrs. Hudson has gone out, Mr. Holmes,’ she said in a clipped manner while taking the cup from his hands. She quickly placed the rest of it onto the tray and after taking it all up in a swift motion, she walked to the door. “I will make you a fresh pot of tea presently...would you be so kind, Doctor Watson?” she asked, motioning to the closed door in front of her.

 

“Of course...permit me,” he responded, opening the door with a small nod as she passed with the swoosh of the dressing gown. 

 

Closing the door after her, John joined the detective where he stood, staring fixedly at the table. 

 

“She is quite an exceptional woman... isn't she, Holmes?” 

 

It took Sherlock a moment to register the words and proximity of his friend, for his attention was fixed elsewhere. His fingers grazed over the papers which lay strewn on the table, and his eyes scanned their contents.  He found himself studying the work with great solemnity and perhaps even a bit of astonishment. 

 

Each drawing had been faithfully rendered to the highest detail, appearing almost identical to the original lithotypes. And below, on each page was written, in a careful hand, each description, along with her own denotations, which were particular to her unique context.  

 

“Yes…quite,” he eventually replied under his breath, carefully picking up each sheet and examining them in silence, totally absorbed. 

 

Sherlock had the strange feeling, gazing at all this impressive detail, that he was still missing something. This case was all coming together quite nicely, but somehow he still felt the pull of mystery. The unshakable notion that there was more left to sort out.

 

“Holmes, may I ask, what happens after all this?”

 

Sherlock inclined his head just briefly at his friend’s question. 

 

“What I mean to say is,” John clarified, his tone noticeably pointed, “What exactly will happen with Miss Hooper?”

 

Just then they heard voices ascending the stairs. Moments later the door opened and in walked Mrs. Hudson, along with Molly Hooper, who carried a tray of hot tea and biscuits. 

 

“ _Mr. Holmes_! You do insist on keeping me in the dark regarding your returns. It makes it impossible for me to schedule my day!”

 

“My dear Mrs. Hudson, and _you_ do insist upon worrying about it. It would seem to me that you have ample help,” he retorted while relieving Molly of the laden tray.

 

“Oh, _does_ it, sir? Then should I assume that this lovely young lady will be staying with us indefinitely?”

 

The shared act of readying the tea seemed to stall as her remark hung in the air. 

 

Holmes blinked at her several times as Watson covered a snigger with a poorly feigned cough, and the pathologist flushed a becoming shade of pink.

 

With that, the landlady inclined her head slightly and with an exultant smile, she took her leave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY! Whew! I will not lie, those 2 chapters took a lot out of me! Would love to hear your thoughts. I'm also happy to say I've been progressing well on chapter 9, so I'm hoping to post again in one week! Thanks for reading and commenting, guys!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovelies! Thank you so much, for all the awesome feedback! It really means a lot to know you're still out there and enjoying it!
> 
> I'm typically canon compliant, but I've diverted most happily in Mary Watson's fate...in BOTH the original and BBC's. NOT sorry. 
> 
> Also, I'm happy to say that this chapter flowed well enough to be split into 2...yet again! So I'll be on schedule to finish 10 in another week. :)
> 
> And another big thank you to Writingwife83 for her beta-reading powers!
> 
> Okay...I'm done! Meet you at the bottom!

Later that night the army doctor laid in bed considering... or more accurately _reconsidering,_  all he knew up until that point. He hadn’t observed the two together a great deal, but he knew his friend. And there was something different; a subtle change in the air. 

 

Though It seemed so foreign to everything he’d known about him, he would say there was a bit of _tension_ between them...a particular type of tension that Watson would never _ever_ associate with the great brain. 

 

Earlier, as he watched Holmes examine Miss Hooper’s work, he seemed completely fascinated. He hadn’t been disecting a heart or involved in a delicate chemical analysis that meant a man’s life or even immersed in some abstruse and complicated problem. The case had been solved and all interest _should_ have evaporated along with the immediate crisis. 

 

Even the lady’s joyful emotional outburst, although understandable to most, typically would have been abhorrent to his dispassionate nature. While he was admittedly shocked, he was _not_ repulsed by her embrace, in fact he seemed strangely affected by her.

 

The more he pondered the matter the more he perceived a man who was most definitely...involved. Could the most perfect reasoning and observing machine the world has ever seen, be... _smitten_? 

 

Hearing a soft sigh from his slumbering Mary, he glanced over and smiled. Studying her steady breathing and placid features his grin faltered as he recalled how close he came to losing her...losing both of them. 

 

When it became clear that the baby was breech and a risky caesarean section was their only hope, he prayed for a miracle. And In the end he got two...the life of his wife and his beautiful daughter Rosamond. 

 

A chill went through him, feeling suddenly as if he had escaped a sorrow so deep that it would have haunted him the rest of his days.

 

A sense of gratitude hit him while he lay beside his wife and his vision blurred from unshed tears. The thought of what might have been brought him back to what he had in front of him and then strangely back to his friend.

 

If only Holmes could discover what he himself was fortunate enough to find...if the detective could only _allow_ himself this part of the human equation… Watson knew that it would _profoundly_ affect him and for the better.

It could truly complete him.

  
  


……

  
  


Sherlock sat plucking the violin that was cradled across his chest, staring at nothing in particular with a faraway look in his beryl-colored eyes.

 

Doctor Hooper had departed from his flat hours before, reappearing on the London streets and then safely home as Michael Hooper once more. 

 

The vague, puzzling impression still persisted and in fact, seemed to intensify as he settled in for the night. 

 

He resisted any correlation to the pathologists' absence. Afterall, they had not spent a _great_ many hours in each other’s company, so his mood could not be due to the lack of it.

 

His brow furrowed amid the thrumming of the strings; the dull and disordered tones seemed to punctuate his mood.

 

There _was_ one thing that was clear enough, a simple question that kept resurfacing again and again. 

 

‘ _What exactly will happen with Miss Hooper?’_

 

Could that be a part of the uncertainty he felt? But why? Aside from a few more secret-keepers, nothing had really changed in her situation. 

 

All would eventually return to normal.  

  
  


……..

  
  


_Three days later…_

  
  


“Yes, Billy...what is it?” he murmured in response to the curt knock on the door.

 

“You have a letter, Mr. Holmes…”

 

Turning his attention from The Daily Telegraph to the salver the young page was holding; Sherlock took up the envelope that was laid upon it. 

 

“Thank you, Billy...you may go,” he uttered; his forehead knitted as he glanced over the handwriting.

 

The stationary was of fine quality and had a small seal of red wax. Though lacking a return address, he knew from the postmark and the precise script _who_ had penned it. 

 

Slicing open the envelope with his stiletto, he removed the piece of folded white paper and began to read: 

  
  


_My Dear Mr. Holmes,_

 

_I am writing you this letter, as I’m sure you’ve noted, from Bolingbroke Cottage._

 

_Shortly after we parted, I became most disquieted in my mind over the recent difficulties in Lincolnshire. So much so, that by the next day I was of the opinion that I should return._

 

_In light of my fresh ‘illness’ Stamford agreed to grant me sabbatical leave from my duties at Barts. And he was so good as to keep the period ‘open-ended’ -up to a full year, accompanied by regular reports as to my convalescence._

 

 _He is of the impression that I will be touring the_ _Hydropathic Establishments of Scotland, perhaps The Crieff, Kilmacolm or even up to the Isle of Bute. I am indeed curious about the validity of this treatment myself, as I’ve read such wildly conflicting accounts._

 

_Moreover there are several areas of research that I’ve yet to pursue and some past academic colleagues to reacquaint...perchance even with myself, for if I were to be honest, Mr. Holmes, I am weary._

 

_In closing, I would like to express my deepest gratitude once again, for saving my life and even the lives of my household, for if Cecil Barker had succeeded in his schemes, theirs would have been forever changed as well._

 

_Yours most sincerely,_

 

_M. Hooper_

 

……..

  
  


He sat motionless for a time, staring at the signature at the bottom of the letter, processing what he just read. 

 

He wasn’t necessarily surprised by her return to Lincolnshire, considering all that happened. 

 

However he hadn’t foreseen the sybatical of _Michael_ Hooper. 

 

She said she was _weary_ and talked of getting reacquainted with herself, among other things, leaving the distinct impression that her reasons extended beyond recent events.

 

Slowly rising from his chair, Holmes settled back at his desk with pen, ink and paper.

  
  
  


_My Dear Dr. Hooper,_

 

_I’ve had the honor of receiving your letter and trust that my own finds you and yours quite well and recovering from your recent ordeal._

 

_It was very good of you to inform me of your current state of affairs. Perceiving them to be of justifiable measures in light of your circumstances and expect that such an alteration will only prove beneficial to you._

 

_I await word of your future endeavors with great interest._

 

_Remaining ever at your service,_

 

_S. Holmes_

  
  


……..

  
  


Anna walked down the sunny path that led to the apiary, stopping a safe distance away due to her conspicuous fear of bees; she called out to her mistress with a flourish of her hand in hopes of getting her attention.

 

Dressed in her white protective gear, Molly had just replaced the hive’s outer cover when she noticed Mrs. Ames. 

 

Taking up the smoker, she walked back to where Anna stood, pulling up the long veil when she was a safe distance away.

 

“A letter arrived, mum...shortly after you left to tend your bees. And since you’ve barely touched your breakfast this morning, I’ve set up an early luncheon and placed your envelope next to your tea...and please make sure you drink it!”

 

Removing her hat and handing the smoker to Anna, she grinned with a nod of silent surrender before taking off the remainder of her gear and headed towards the morning room.

 

As she poured the tea, her gaze fell on the crisp white envelope that laid on the table and almost overflowed her cup when she recognized the hand.

 

It wouldn’t be out of the common to receive correspondence from anyone else, but she, knowing who she addressed, had no expectation of a reply from the man.

 

Her fingers brushed over Holmes’ distinctive script before picking up the letter and seating herself at a desk by the double-window.

 

Just as she read his rather laconic words, his last sentence caused her eyebrows to rise and her lips to part in surprise. 

 

In her mind she hadn’t even considered that he would desire to continue their dialogue. She presumed that, as with all his other _cases_ , his interest would vanish once the problem was resolved.

 

But at a glance, it would appear that she was mistaken.

 

She read the detective’s letter several more times before gazing out the window, her thoughts clearly miles away.

 

Looking back upon his great efforts to redeem _both_ her lives, she _also_ recalled to her mind the moments that allowed _her_ certain deeper insights into his. 

 

Minutes later Anna entered the room, seeing her mistress at the desk and staring out the window, with another cup of untouched tea, she frowned.

 

“Not _bad_ news, I pray, mum?” she asked in a soft voice, as she walked to her side.

 

As if waking from a dream, Molly looked up at her concerned face and quickly answered, “No, nothing of the sort… thank God.” 

 

“Shall I pour you another hot cup of tea, then, mum?” She asked pointedly, trying to look stern, but failing.

 

She smiled up at her caring friend before lowering her eyes to the note in front of her.

 

“Yes, Anna...thank you,” she answered, opening her desk to retrieve a fresh sheet of paper and a new pen nib.

 

After setting the hot cuppa by her elbow, she stood by Molly’s side, as still as a mouse, prompting the pathologist to stop what she was doing and dutifully take a sip of her tea, glancing up at her with a sheepish grin.

 

Anna grinned in return and gave her a wink before closing the door behind her.

 

She continued to sip her tea as she pondered her next letter with a bright twinkle in her eye and when she set down her empty cup, she took her pen in hand...and began to write.

 

 

_My Dear Mr. Holmes,_

 

_There was an interesting occurrence at my northernmost hive this morning. I believe it would have piqued your interest as it proved to be a bit of a mystery...._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know...your teeth are aching from all the sweetness! XD
> 
> That said however, I will be posting a warning for violence in chapter 10... for any possible physical assault triggers, just to be safe. 
> 
> No fear, it's nothing tragic, but if you'd like to skip it, I'll make sure you will not be lost regarding plot in chapter 11, which may (or may not) be the last chapter. I doubt I'll have more than 12 left in me!
> 
> Thanks again, guys and don't be shy with your comments! I'm greedy like that! ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, my lovelies! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for the awesome feedback! I love reading your thoughts, theories and reactions! :D
> 
> So I'm a bit overdue with my update, but you'll be getting an extra long chapter for your patience! And I think this one is my favorite so far.
> 
> I also wanted to give warning for possible triggers for violent assault, just to be on the safe side.
> 
> Our detective is getting himself involved...very, very involved. Enjoy!

_Six weeks later…_

  
  


Michael Hooper _heard_ the three coming before they were even through her doors. 

 

Lestrade, Holmes and Watson were in deep conversation, presumably about the corpse that was dropped off less than an hour before. They entered and walked down the long vaulted room, oblivious to her presence until only a meter away. 

 

When they did, all three were taken back with a start, looking totally dumbfounded, to her hidden delight.

 

“Doctor Hooper! You’re here!” the inspector exclaimed, stepping forward seconds later to shake her hand, appearing quite confused.

 

“Yes, I arrived late, last night”, she replied with a small half smile and took his hand in return.

 

Her smile grew only wider when she met John’s happy and relieved face, “We had no idea of your plans to return. Stamford gave us no indication, whatever!” he said, grabbing her hand in order, and pumped it rather vigorously.

 

“No, I had only just recently decided and apparently the wire I sent had been delayed, as well. Poor Stamford learned I was coming only hours before I arrived, which is fortunate enough, because we’re shorthanded this morning.”

 

As she released Watson’s hand, her eyes ascended to meet the steady gaze of the detective. 

 

Feeling an immediate thrill when their eyes connected, she did her best to match the neutrality of his expression. 

 

“Hooper...”

 

“Holmes...”

 

They both stood motionless for several seconds before the man slowly pulled at the fingers of his leather glove and removed it completely before extending his bare hand to her.

 

Taking it with a strong grip, she was at once aware of the considerable heat his hold emitted, yet it managed to send a shiver down her spine. And in his eyes, the phlegmatic air that was typical of the man, seemed to slip briefly, allowing her a glimpse of feeling.

 

“It is most…’ he paused, searching for the suitable word, ‘... _gratifying_ to know that you are back at Barts, doctor. Things have been a bit deficient, as of late.”

 

“I’m sure Stamford would appreciate more information on that end. And thank you. It’s… good to be here.”

 

The detective regarded her hesitant statement with interest, but said nothing as he released her hand, clasping his own behind his back.

 

“Now then, for the purpose of your visit? If you gentlemen would follow me...the body is still unidentified, correct?”

 

“Yes, that’s right. It a queer business…” said the inspector, as he scratched the side of his whiskers. “There’s been a rash of Hooliganism involving the theft and destruction of a number of plaster busts of Napoleon.”

 

Pausing in the middle of removing the cover sheet of the corpse, she looked over her shoulder in surprise.

 

“Napoleon?” she asked, before continuing the reveal. 

 

“A most singular feature, isn’t it, Doctor?” Holmes asked, rubbing his hands together as he approached the body.

 

“And this man is connected, how?” 

 

“He was killed outside one of the burgled homes...either as an unfortunate passerby or an accomplice to the crimes; this is yet to be determined.”

 

“I see, ‘ she said, stooping under the gurney to fetch the box containing the deceased’s worldly goods and continued her observations. “He was an unusually tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty, and wore a catholic emblem around his neck. He was poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer, judging by his hands.” 

 

Upon that last remark Molly glanced up in time to see a slight twitch in the corner of the detective’s mouth before she finished. “There was nothing in his pockets except an apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph.”

 

“Cause of death was the obvious laceration to the throat, I take it?” asked Watson, as he eyed the jagged wound.

 

“Precisely,” was the response spoken by both Hooper and Holmes, causing the army doctor to look up at the pair, the two evidently ignoring the synchronism. 

 

“Thank you...both,” he responded with some cheek and a smirk.

 

All three gathered closer, paying particular attention to the photo. It was of a fierce looking man with a heavy brow and deep set eyes. Examining the back of the photo, they took notice of a small symbol that was in the bottom left-corner, causing Lestrade to let out a cry of recognition. “The Red Circle!”

 

The pathologist cast the inspector a questioning glance. “And that is…?”

 

“A nefarious group… Neapolitan originally… currently Italian American…’ he answered, ‘... connected with the Mafia, enforcing its decrees by murder. We’ve had some dealings with them here in London not so long ago. They must be in the center of this killing.”

 

“But what of the destruction of the busts, Inspector?” Holmes asked in all innocence.

 

“The busts! That’s _small potatoes_ , as the Americans would say! After all, it's nothing but petty larceny, six months at the most. It’s the murder that we’re really investigating here. We have an inspector who specializes in Saffron Hill and the Italian quarter. We’ll soon get to the bottom of it.”  

 

 “Very good, Lestrade…I suggest that you go on your line and I on my own. I _would_ like to retain this photograph for a short time and then at 6 tonight, at Baker street we can hopefully supplement each other's findings,” the detective said as they moved toward the door from which they entered.

 

“It’s good to have you back, Doctor Hooper,” Lestrade called over his shoulder; the first one to leave.

 

“Yes, and you must come to dinner one night. My wife, Mary would like to make your acquaintance...finally,” Watson said, with a twinkle in his eye, following closely at the inspector’s heels.

 

Sherlock paused at the door, turning back to Molly, who had followed the trio down the corridor.

 

He brought his hand up to his hat and inclined his head in a silent goodbye. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he looked deeply into hers and even though she wore the mustache and wig, she had a strong sense that he was truly seeing _her_.

 

Her own eyes sparkled as she held his gaze, returning the gesture with a bow of her head.

 

And he was gone.

  
  


* * *

 

_Later that night…_

  
  


Glancing at her pocket watch, she rubbed her tired eyes, realizing her attempts at catching up on paperwork kept her much too late. She rose from the desk and stretched out the tightness in her back before closing the inkwell and ledger.

 

Just then she heard a strange noise from the outer hall. 

 

The doors were always locked at that hour and the night porter rarely wandered from his post. 

 

She stood very still, straining her ears to hear anything more, but when nothing came, she walked towards the rear room for her hat and coat.

 

She wondered how Holmes and the Yard progressed with their Napoleon mystery. It appeared that the detective was following a definite track and she learned long ago what that meant. 

 

A part of her wondered if he would come back to share his conclusions. She shook her head and chided herself for such thoughts.

 

Suddenly a loud crash shattered the silence and she froze again. But when next she heard a muffled shout, Molly tossed her things and sprinted down the vaulted corridor. 

 

Halfway down the hall she slid to a dead stop when a large shadowy figure came into view, some three meters away.

 

“You have a body... today,” he said in broken english. “He had a _fotografia_ … I come to take. It is mine.” His tone was constrained, but there was a hard malice in his eyes that caused her to take a reflexive step backwards.

 

“First –can you identify this body?”

 

His glower seemed to magnify as he took another step forward, but did not respond to her question.

 

“I will not give you anything unless you can prove to be the next of kin,” she clarified in a firm and steady voice, betraying none of the rising anxiety she felt.

 

“Then...I sorry for you, _omino,”_ He sneered, suddenly pulling out a two-edged dagger. 

 

Molly bolted back down the hall with the intruder close at her heels; an instant later she was slammed against the shelves of the rear wall by the full impact of his body. Pinning her left arm behind her back and using his weight to immobilize her, he brought the blade threateningly close, just centimeters from her right eye.

 

“Give me fotografia –you live… _è emplice.”_

 

“W-which body is it? We get many everyday!’ she choked in a strained voice, while her other arm slowly moved along the shelves, searching and then grasping something hidden behind a row of bottles.

 

Molly cried out in pain as he wrenched her arm upwards in response to her question.

 

“You show me…” he replied, pressing the knife against her jawbone.

 

“Y-yes…” she answered softly, causing him to relax his hold. 

 

Just as they began to move, Molly recoiled her leg and thrust out a vicious backwards kick, hyperextending the man’s knee; at the same time breaking his hold by twisting around.

 

Her attacker cursed loudly, clenching his injured leg as she stood gripping a cocked revolver with two shaky hands.

 

“Stay back...” she breathed in a low growl. “I swear to you, I’ll use this, if you don’t stay back.”

 

Suddenly there was the sound of running feet and a second later Sherlock Holmes was standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with fear and shock. 

 

But before the detective could speak a word, the intruder lunged for Molly, forcing her to shoot him in the shoulder. Yet he still managed to lay hold of her and they wrestled for the gun. 

 

Running at full speed, Sherlock, grabbing a bottle, cracked it over the man’s head, finally disabling him as he crashed to the floor. 

 

The whole episode was over in an instant, leaving her dazed and off-balance. 

 

She looked up to see Holmes’ alarmed expression and she heard him say, “Doctor, I believe you are in need of medical attention,” in a far off voice. 

 

A tickle on the side of her face compelled her to lift her hand, gently placing her fingers there. It was then that she realized the tickle she felt was actually dripping over her right eye. Her realization was confirmed when she removed her hand from the sticky wetness and lowered her gaze to see it covered in blood.

 

All at once shock set in and she started to sway. Sherlock was there with his arms around her, keeping her upright as he guided her to the closest chair.

 

“You have a rather deep cut above your eye that will require stitches. You’re losing a substantial amount of blood,” he said, quickly finding a large piece of gauze and applying gentle pressure to the wound.

 

“Have you sustained any other injuries?” he asked, his eyes dark with concern, her normally crisp white shirt now mottled in crimson. 

 

“I...I don’t think so,” she answered slowly, but as her heart rate returned to normal, she started to feel the aftermath of the incident. Her upper body and left arm began to ache while she dimly recalled the feeling of the knife cutting her brow. 

 

“The wrapping I have around my…my torso has helped to absorb some of the impact, I believe…” her voice trailed off as her fingers lightly grazed her midsection, before continuing her self-examination. “Nothing broken...just some bruising,” she added, looking up to see the detective’s eyes narrow.

 

“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes…” she asserted before he could challenge her, “but I will need your help once more. In the past you spoke of having to _self-administer_ stitches, on more than one occasion. I can not risk having the police doctor attend to me; he would require a complete examination…”

 

Realization dawned before she finished talking.

 

“Ah, yes...of course. I understand,” he remarked, looking somewhat abashed, still pressing the now bloody gauze to her head.

 

His attention was diverted when the unconscious man began to stir, prompting Sherlock to move him to the rear room and to secure him to a pillar using his own leather belt.

 

Shortly after this, Bates, the night porter, who had been laying senseless by the outer doors, had recovered and was sent to the Yard with an urgent note regarding their prisoner.

 

Next, they gathered the surgical supplies and Molly sat on a gurney, eye-level to the detective. 

 

“I’ll do my best to make the stitches as small as possible.” His voice sank almost to a whisper and his brow was drawn down in thought, as he sterilized the threaded needle.

 

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back and gave a half shrug. 

 

“Are you saying that for my _vanity's_ sake, Mr. Holmes?” she asked with something of a smile, feeling slightly lightheaded from the loss of blood.

 

Looking up from his preparations, he met her gaze with a raised eyebrow; his mood lifting a bit from her question.

 

“Am I _wrong_ to assume that a _smaller_ scar is preferable?”

 

“I‘m generally of the belief that a scar can add character and interest to a person’s face.”

 

He tilted his head as his eyes seemed to contemplate her remark. 

 

“I am not of the opinion that your face is in need of any more _interest_ , but it helps to know that it’s of no great consequence to you. Instead, let’s focus on stopping the bleeding, shall we? I gather that there is no ether within reach?” he asked, his face getting closer while examining the depth of the cut.

 

“As there isn't any justification for having ether at the morgue, Mr. Holmes, no…” she said grinning at the thought, “but I do believe Anderson keeps a bottle of _something_... in his drawer.”

 

After procuring said bottle, the detective opened it and took a sniff. “Scotch...that will do, “ he said, before handing her the spirit. 

 

He watched her take a small sip and grimace from its potency.

 

“I believe this will require three stitches, doctor. I strongly recommend that you drink a bit more.”

 

She looked at it wearily, but managed to take 2 more gulps before handing it back.

 

Although she hadn’t flinched when he began, the pain was considerable, since she had been sliced to the bone. And as he pulled the first stitch closed, she determined to distract herself with some well-deserved answers.

 

“Am I safe to presume that this man is connected to the Napoleon problem?”

 

“Indeed...a matter which was cleared up less than an hour ago, actually.”

 

“You solved it, then?” she asked in surprise. “That was quick!” 

 

“In truth, the whole affair started over a year ago.” he remarked, keeping his attention on knotting the second stitch.

 

“Was Lestrade right about The Red Circle?” She flinched but then quickly held herself steady once again. “Is that who we have in the back room?” 

 

Sherlock smirked and his eyes briefly met her questioning gaze. “ _That_ particular connection may _not_ be so quick to prove, unfortunately...however, we _were_ able to-”

 

At that moment, in walked the very man, flanked by two other constables, the police doctor, and the night porter, just as Holmes managed to tie off the last stitch.

 

The sight of the detective giving medical treatment to the doctor was enough to provoke expressions of bewilderment all around.

 

“Dr. Hooper’s blood-loss was becoming critical, Lestrade. We couldn’t risk waiting.”

 

The police doctor stepped over to inspect the wound, which was nicely secured with three tiny sutures, before giving a grunt of approval and returning to the Inspector’s side with a nod. 

 

“Right, then...what’s the condition of the prisoner? Bates here tells me he had to be shot. Which of you two had the honors?”

 

“I shot him, Lestrade,” the pathologist revealed, as she slowly slid off the gurney, straightening to her full height and met the men with a steady gaze.

 

“And I am witness to the _necessity_ of that act, Inspector,” stated Holmes in an emphatic tone. “As for his _condition_ , he’s currently tied up and unconscious with a gunshot and head wound –all of which is his due reward.”

 

“Do we even know his name and why he attacked Dr. Hooper?” asked Lestrade, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

Just then a snarl of italian expletives was heard from the rear room, and within a quarter of an hour the man was treated, handcuffed and reentering the larger vaulted corridor, where Holmes and Hooper waited. Before he passed them however, the detective stepped forward and spoke in simple english, so he could be understood. 

 

“You should know that the pearl has been found and will be returned to Prince of Colonna.”

 

The large man was dumbfounded and stopped in his tracks.

 

“You... no lie?!” he questioned desperately, his voice hoarse but bearing no trace of it’s previous malevolence.

  
  


A surprised Inspector Lestrade looked at the man and nodded. “True enough, my man. The black pearl of the Borgias is under lock and key at the Yard, and we’ve sent word to the Italian Embassy. Will you cooperate now?

 

“Sì, signore…” 

 

“You are _Giacomo Sciarra_ , I presume?” Sherlock asked with a distinct gleam in his eye, as the man’s own eyes widened at the question and had a trace of suspicion before he concurred.

 

“You will also be happy to know that _Beppo,_ the man in the photograph, has been arrested tonight and will be charged with the murder of _Pietro Venucci_ , I believe his name was?”

 

Sciarra nodded once more with a look of amazement on his face.

 

“Alright, enough talk...let’s get you down to the Yard and we’ll take your statement...Mr. Sciarra, is it?” Lestrade said with sudden urgency, as the two constables moved the shackled prisoner forward. “And I’ll be seeing you two later, for _your_ statements, yes? It can wait till morning, but we’ll need it to be official,” he added.

 

As they headed out, the police doctor turned and addressed Molly. “I would strongly recommend that you check yourself into Barts for overnight observation, if you live alone. It would be a wise precaution, given the nature of your injuries.”

 

“Um, doctor…” the inspector piped, frowning at her hesitation. “If you wanted to stay with my wife and…”

 

“No, thank you, Lestrade… very hospitable of you, but Dr. Hooper will be staying at Baker St. Mrs. Hudson would insist upon it,” interrupted the detective.

 

“Oh…” he responded with raised brows, looking at the two with surprise. “That’s fine...good. Then I’ll see you at the station tomorrow, yeah?”

 

And with that, they filed out, leaving the morgue quiet once more.

 

Holmes turned to find a very much disheveled Molly Hooper looking up at him with an expression bordering on exhaustion, but with a definite fondness that made his eyes go round.

 

“Mrs. Hudson is very kindhearted for showing such concern and devotion to my well-being,” she commented softly.

 

His usually guarded manner seemed to waver a bit, as his eyes searched her face and she saw a tenderence there that made her pulse quicken.

 

“Yes, well…” he said, drawing a long breath, his gaze dropping to the floor as a slow grin spread across his features. “She wouldn’t want that to become common knowledge.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tiptoeing over cautiously* You guys, ok? lol 
> 
> Yes, a bit of a coaster ride, but I had a blast writing it! Hope you enjoyed reading it! ;) And If you did, don't be shy! 
> 
> My heartfelt thank you, as always, to Writingwife83 for helping me iron out those problem areas! ;))
> 
> Credit to Sir A C Doyle for the case inspiration: The Adventure of the Six Napoleons and The Adventure of the Red Circle...all of which gets full closure from our detective next chapter.
> 
> Thanks again and looking forward to hearing from you! Cheers!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So they've begun the Sherolly waltz and the music has definitely picked up it's tempo!
> 
> Thank you, Writingwife83 for making sure Sherlock continues to lead! ;)
> 
> And no, if you're wondering...sadly there's no actual dancing in this chapter! But hopefully you'll enjoy it anyway!

By the time the pair returned to Baker Street it was well after two in the morning and Mrs. Hudson had long since retired to bed. 

 

And when they discovered that Watson’s old room had understandably no linens, the pathologist insisted that the settee was more than adequate for her needs.

 

“It may even be preferable... in case there _are_ any problems, I would be in closer proximity.” she pointed out; an answer which seemed acceptable from his lack of opposition.

 

As Molly sat down to remove her shoes, the detective watched her with a deepening frown, drumming his fingers on the table.

 

After a moment she looked up with questioning eyes and a grin before carefully rising to her feet once more.

 

“Your clothing –you will need assistance in removing them. Under the circumstances I’m sure Mrs. Hudson would understand if we ....”

 

“No, please, Mr. Holmes. I am sure I can manage quite well, if I take my time,” she interrupted with certainty in her voice, but a second later a sudden doubt clouded her face, undermining her previous statement. 

 

“What is it?…” he asked brusquely, breaking into her thoughts.

 

“I can not sleep in the wig and ...will need help with removing all the pins. Raising my arm in this manner is...” she said, half extending her elbow and wincing in pain before lowering it again.

 

“Then I will assist you,” he said matter-of-factly, seemingly unaffected by the glaring inconvenience that the pathologist so keenly felt.

 

He deftly re-positioned one of the chairs to have complete mobility and stood behind it with a pointed stare, patting the back of it with a touch of impatience. “Really, Dr. Hooper, I hardly see this as troublesome,” he stated, responding to her apparent reluctance.

 

“There are _many_ pins, Mr. Holmes. I’m afraid it will take some time,” she claimed, but slowly took the seat that was offered.

 

“Then it would afford the perfect opportunity to finish my explanation of the ‘Napoleon problem’...as you described it earlier,” he answered while rotating in front of her with his hands poised on both sides of her head and frowned with uncertainty as to where to start. “Where would you recommend…”

 

“Oh, um...by the hairline first,” she replied, gently taking his hovering hands and guiding them to the edge of the wig.

 

He blinked several times as his fingertips grazed her forehead with a feather touch and traveled down along her temples before he felt the pins. 

 

After placing the first one in her lap, he cleared his throat, “Where were we?” he asked in a somewhat distracted tone.

 

“Um…” she uttered with a knitted brow, herself preoccupied by their close contact. “...you mentioned something about a pearl and a prince, to that... _gentleman_ ,” she added with a clear indication that she had another term in mind.

 

“Ah, yes…” he recalled, making an effort to focus on the narrative and not the softness of her skin. “...I also said that the whole matter began over a year ago; when the famous black pearl of the Borgias was stolen from the Prince of Colonna’s bedroom at the Dacre Hotel; a case that I was unable to throw any light upon at the time due to a lack of data.”

 

Several pins later they were able to release the remarkably secure wig from her scalp, to which revealed an equally fettered braid that was wrapped and pinned tightly around her head. 

 

He glanced down to see a slightly amused ‘you were warned’ look in her eyes, but turned back to the task at hand and continued his tale in a distinctly unhurried manner.   

 

“Suspicion fell on the maid, Lucretia Venucci, who was in fact, the sister of the man who lay in your morgue, a Pietro Venucci. 

 

When tracing the origins of the plaster busts themselves, I found a correlation between the date of the disappearance of the pearl and an arrest for a violent act against this Pietro, at the plasterworks of Gelder & Co, committed by the very man in the photograph that was in the dead man’s pocket. 

 

This man, _Beppo_ , either stole the pearl from Pietro or was a confederate; that is yet unknown, but he had been a workman at the factory and was imprisoned for a year due to this assault.

 

Fortunately for me, once released, Beppo wasted no time in trying to reclaim his treasure, for the strange burglaries of the Napoleons served to connect his association with the Venuccis and the pearl.

 

During my investigation at the factory, I learned of his employ and that these plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage where he was apprehended by police, a fact that pointed to the probability that Beppo, in a desperate act to rid himself of the pearl, hid it in one of the busts...which inevitably led us to the trail of Beppo himself. 

 

After obtaining the name and address of the man who purchased the remaining Napoleon from Harding Brothers, of Kensington and knowing Beppo would seek out the last remaining bust, we were able to nab him, and at the same time, recover the stolen pearl.”

 

Holmes steadily progressed in uncoiling the braid and by the end of his story it hung loose down Molly’s back. Without pause he then began unraveling the plait, starting from the bottom and working his way up.

 

In the time it took for him to give the account of his adventure she had closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax under the power of his rich baritone. The loosening of her hair seemed to parallel a feeling of ease that came over her, giving in to the overwhelming need to rest in this place that had somehow become her refuge. “And what of this _Giacomo Sciarra_?” she asked in a serene, almost tranquil tone, despite the mention of the disturbing man in question. 

 

“Ah, yes...Mr. Sciarra. We met briefly a year ago, when I became acquainted with the prince who boasted that the man had _Condottieri_ lineage and that the last two generations of his family served as guardians. He saw the theft of the pearl as a personal disgrace and vowed to restore his honor. I failed to factor him into the equation,” he reflected soberly.

 

A ripple of pleasure flowed through her as his long fingers gently traced through each section of hair and she exhaled softly, her head falling back just enough that he could see her expression. 

 

He swallowed thickly as he watched her; his hands at last reaching the nape of her neck. And as he slowly carded through the base of the braid, her hair cascaded around her shoulders, finally free from it’s constraints. 

 

“Perhaps I could have prevented his coming tonight ...if the prince had been notified earlier,” he added in a voice that prompted Molly’s eyes to snap open and she turned slightly in her chair to meet his gaze.    

 

She stared at him hard for a moment before speaking. “You can’t account for _every_ outcome, Mr. Holmes. Only God is omniscient. The fact that you were there at _all_ is amazing to...” 

 

She paused suddenly, her thought interrupted by a more pressing question. “Why _did_ you come tonight?” she asked softly, looking up at him with eyes so sincere, so open, that his own grew wide in response.

 

“I…” The detective was briefly agape; a wrinkle appeared between his brows as he hesitated under the considerable pull of her gaze. “...I wanted…” The radiance of the lamplight seemed to ignite her brown eyes and he felt a strange burn in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t until his body pressed against the chair that separated them, did he appear to realize how close they were. If they had both been standing, it would have almost been an embrace. 

 

It was this flash of awareness that enabled him to break the connection and step away towards the fireplace.

 

After a short time she rose slowly from her spot and stood next to him, facing the comforting glow of the hearth. “You wanted…” Molly prompted, not allowing the man to abandon his explanation.

 

He seemed to study the flames as they flickered before him and after a moment he took a deep breath.

 

“It would seem Molly Hopper that I’ve...grown accustomed to talking with you during these past...six weeks, is it? I’ve never been anyone’s _correspondent_ before. At least not for any prolonged amount of time. 

 

Detailed monographs on scientific analisis or lectures on deductive reasoning is more my line; Watson has always been the chronicler.

 

For me to put pen to paper in order to recount my daily life to a...well, to _anyone_ has been a unique experience.” He paused and looked to the floor before turning his face to meet the doctor’s gaze. “One that I have grown to appreciate,” he added with a small, but warm smile that reached his eyes.

 

As Molly looked up at him, Sherlock thought about how their letters had gradually grown more intimate, revealing some of the pain and sadness she had endured on the path that she had chosen for herself. The opportunity had been worthwhile, but it had it’s price. It struck him that he considered it a true gift and privilege that she should lay bare those feelings to him. And he could almost picture her... in the dead of night, perhaps through bouts of insomnia and loneliness, telling him what was in her heart. 

 

Sherlock knew that he could be cold and even appear unfeeling, but if ever this small woman had questioned whether her words and expressions had been irritating or distasteful to him, she would have been so very wrong. He truly _cared_ to hear every word on those pages. He cared _for her_. 

 

He swallowed as Molly took a half step closer to him, but otherwise remained perfectly still.

 

“I would assume then, since you were so accustomed to our letters, you came to the morgue to reveal how the case worked out?”

 

He nodded in response while his prismatic eyes wandered over her upturned face. 

 

“A remarkable turn of events, which seems so _simple_ when you explain it, but was far from obvious to everyone else, I’m sure. Tell me…” she paused as a mischievous grin spread across her lips. “When you found the pearl, did you have the honors?”

 

Immediately his expression clouded from the question.

 

“Did you smash it?” she hinted with bare-faced delight.

 

Instantly his eyes registered her meaning and the same smile appeared on his face, more roguish on his handsome features.

 

“I took my trusty hunting-crop and dashed it to pieces,” he divulged with ingenuous satisfaction.

 

They stood grinning at each other until the moment became charged with the same tension they felt earlier. 

 

As his smile gradually faded, he knew she could likely see a burgeoning tempest in his eyes. Perhaps it matched the one he could see swirling in hers.

 

But just then, Sherlock’s attention shifted and he frowned down at her. She seemed hardly aware of the slight sway in her small form, but it prompted Sherlock’s arm to dart out and wrap securely around her waist. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket he covered her temple.

 

“You’re bleeding again...only slightly, but I’m glad you're here tonight. What if you had fallen and you were alone?” His voice sank almost to a whisper and he didn’t attempt to hide the concern etched on his face, which was only centimeters away. 

 

She leaned her head against the detective’s chest as he held her and without truly deciding to, his thumb lightly caressed her cheekbone as he held the handkerchief to her face.

 

“You need to rest now,” he said softly, his lips grazing the top of her head. “And you will _not_ be sleeping on the settee tonight, but in my bed. I will be perfectly fine in the sitting room. Fortunately, you’re in no condition to argue with me, so you may as well concede the fight.”

 

She languidly lifted her face to his and smiled up at him. “I don’t want to fight anymore,” she sighed and as if on cue, her legs gave out from under her, but he managed to pick her up with one swoop, and carry her bridal-style to his room.  

 

“Sadly, you _will_ have to sleep in your clothes tonight, but it could have been worse. You _could_ have been in _Molly_ Hooper’s attire and not _Michael’s_ ,” he remarked while laying her gently down and covering her in blankets.

 

Molly chuckled softly and looked up with sleepy eyes. “Must you _always_ be so brilliant, Mr. Holmes?” she mumbled drowsily.  

 

“Um, yes...I must,” he answered with a smile. “I _also_ think it’s rather absurd for you to continue to call me _Mr_ Holmes, don’t you?"

 

She blinked up at him in renewed awareness. “Yes... I do,” she answered and smiled again.

 

“So I will bid you a good night and thank you once more... _Sherlock,”_ she said in an almost caressing tone.

 

There was something so intimate and right about hearing her breath his name, that without hesitation he leaned down and gently kissed her forehead and said before closing the door behind him, “Good night, Molly.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're turning about the room with more confidence now. Let's see if someone wants to cut in! ;) 
> 
> And if you did enjoy it, don't forget to leave your comments, I love every one!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies!!! 
> 
> Hope you all are safe and healthy in these crazy times!
> 
> So this is NOT the last chapter...I think one more will do it, though. 
> 
> All my thanks, again to Writingwife83!
> 
> Let's get right to it, shall we?

Molly turned her face into the pillow and winced as she entered the first stages of consciousness. With the vague impression that she was somewhere _other_ than her own bed, she immediately recognized the scent on the linens and that reality jolted her into an upright position, making her suddenly nauseous and lightheaded. 

 

She groaned softly and frowned from the pain in her head. Bringing both hands to her forehead, she quickly realized that she had more than a knife wound on her brow.

 

A second later there was a quick knock and she raised her head to see a concerned Doctor Watson standing in the open door. Removing his coat and hat, he approached the bed cautiously. “Holmes sent for me. You need to be properly examined,” he said with a pointed look.

 

Molly nodded gravely, moving slowly to the edge of the bed.

 

“He told me you were attacked at the morgue last night… he helped stitch you up. There was considerable bleeding, I understand?” he asked while examining the head wound.

 

“Yes, that was the primary concern, but I believe the impact against the back wall was harder then I realized,” she said a bit sheepishly. 

 

“What? Holmes didn’t mention any of that.” John’s brow knitted in confusion, helping to remove the wrinkled shirt for a closer look at the injuries. 

 

“He...well, I didn’t _exactly_ tell him. Before he arrived I was slammed against the wall with the full force of this man’s body weight, which was considerably more than my own.”

 

“You must have hit your head as well,” he noted while looking into her eyes and probing her scalp. “There _is_ bruising here... some swelling… and headache, yes? I’d say you have a mild concussion.”

 

Doctor Hooper blinked at him and then nodded. “That would make sense. Although I didn’t feel much pain last night. Mostly just fatigue and perhaps I _was_ a bit dazed. I...I even think I...I think Mr. Holmes carried me to bed.” She gently rubbed her temples, feeling her cheeks flush from the foggy recollection. 

 

After quickly shedding the wraps around her torso, Watson confirmed she had no broken ribs, only minimal injury, but her sprained arm and shoulder was mottled with angry bruises, though there was no numbness or swelling. “You may want to restrict movement with this arm for a couple of days, but overall, I’d say you’ll make a full recovery with some extra rest.”  

 

“Thank you, Doctor Watson,” she conceded with another nod.

 

“And that rest should begin now. I’ll recommend to Holmes and Mrs. Hudson that you stay here for at least another 24 hours.”

 

“But Inspector Lestrade is expecting us at the station today,” she protested, suddenly feeling rather frustrated at her predicament.

 

“I’ll give him my medical report on your condition and tell him you're simply unable to come today...doctor’s orders.”

 

Molly frowned and let out a disgruntled sigh.

 

Watson’s eyebrow went up in surprise. “Problem?”

 

“Yes, I’m very much starting to feel like a burden. I only _just_ return to London and here I am, imposing on their benevolence once more!” 

 

The army doctor’s face remained impassive as he listened to her objection, aware of the rising displeasure in her voice.

 

“Despite these injuries, Doctor Watson, I am not an invalid and am quite capable of tending to my own needs.”

 

He tilted his head and took a second to consider her argument before responding. 

 

“Doctor Hooper, I am not unsympathetic to your...concerns, but it is my professional opinion that you remain here. Furthermore, I doubt very much you would be able to fit in that wig right now.”

 

The opposition that had been on Molly’s face a second before quickly diminished as she listened to Watson’s words and a moment later she drew herself back under the covers with a clouded, but resigned expression.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock gazed out onto the busy London street below him. He stood completely motionless, yet his thoughts whirled incessantly and around one particular person.

 

Hearing his friend emerge once again from his occupied bedroom, he turned to face him with a look of tempered anticipation. “How is she?”

 

“Well, you were right to have sent for me. She has a slight concussion and a sprain in her arm and shoulder,” John stated just as Mrs. Hudson entered with the morning tea. “I told her rest is the best thing right now, but she’s under the impression that she’s become a burden to you both.”

 

The detective frowned and his landlady shook her head with a chuckle before giving a dismissive wave. “Can she have a cuppa or is she resting?” she asked, pouring the hot, steamy liquid into a gold-rimmed china cup.

 

“Hmm… most likely you’ll find her sulking rather than resting. Tea would probably elevate her mood.”

 

With tea in hand, Mrs. Hudson walked over to the bedroom door and with a quick knock, she entered, closing the door behind her.

 

“Why on earth would she be _sulking?”_ Sherlock huffed with a confused scowl.

 

“Very often doctors make the worst patients,” he remarked with a smirk. “And she _has_ had a rough time of it lately, wouldn’t you say, Holmes? Besides that, you, of all people can understand the aversion of being confined.”

 

His furrowed brow eased a bit and he turned to the window once more. “Is she restricted to bed? Or can she recline in the sitting room.”

 

“No, complete bed-rest is not necessary, but she should be off her feet and at leisure. That means no experiments! At least not until tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

The morning had slipped into early evening before the detective saw his convalescing house guest. She had drifted into another deep sleep only to awaken during afternoon tea, appearing just as the landlady had arrived with the tray, and wrapped in his mouse-colored dressing gown.

 

With one glance he could see that the pathologist wasn’t herself. She seemed sullen and careworn, not at all like her typically amiable disposition.

 

“Here love, come sit and put something in your stomach,” urged Mrs. Hudson. “I brought up some fresh clothes for you to change into...after you’ve had a nibble. And no more talk of you being any sort of trouble to us. I’ve very much enjoyed having you here. I won’t speak for Mr. Holmes, although I probably could…” she added with a wink before she took her leave.

 

They sat for quite some time in silence. Molly’s focus had remained fixed on the tea and sandwiches, while the man across the table had set his attention squarely on her. 

 

And it wasn’t until she consumed her second triangle of toast, did he attempt to engage her in conversation.

 

“I understand that a concussion, even a mild one can bring psychological as well as physiological symptoms. It is not unusual to experience mental depression and irritability, along with the headaches and fatigue.”

 

Molly froze in mid-sip when the detective made the comment and her eyes flickered up to connect with his. After a few seconds she slowly lowered the cup to it’s saucer.

 

“Are you saying that you find me mentally unstable?”

 

His mouth fell open for an instant before he answered. “No...no, not at all! I was just pointing out that these abnormalities are common… nothing to worry about and in most cases are temporary. You may have trouble concentrating. Your memory may even be affected... as well as your balance and coordination.” Sherlock knew he was babbling at this point, but her piercing stare seemed to have a most unsettling effect.

 

He watched as her penetrating gaze shifted briefly into one of repressed amusement. “You sound like a medical textbook.”

 

His eyes darted sideways with a look that was decidedly guilty. “I...may or may not have consulted my medical reference while you were sleeping,” he admitted in a tone that seemed to soften her gaze even further. 

 

She looked down at the tablecloth and frowned, tracing the pattern with her finger in an unconscious fashion. “Mr. H–”  she halted, like a sudden flash of memory had recalled something vague and incredulous. Giving a quick shake of her head, as if to dismiss a ludicrous thought; Molly refocused on the detective’s face, who gave his best effort to keep his features neutral.

 

He knew what memory must have been triggered and was immediately reminded of it himself. _So I will bid you a good night and thank you once more...Sherlock._ He remembered how intimate and almost musical his name sounded on her lips. 

 

He could now see that she doubted her memory. And who could blame her? Hadn’t he inadvertently watered that seed of doubt? 

 

He had reproached himself the night before, after he left her safely in his bed. He had been too familiar when she was hardly in a clear state of mind... or body, for that matter. The close physical contact they had most of the night clouded his judgement. And the regret he felt was channeled into making sure she was looked after, resulting in Wiggens calling for the army doctor in the wee hours.

 

But as he looked at her today, he could tell she was preoccupied with something other than just yesterday's drama.

 

“There is something else that weighs upon your mind… isn’t there, Doctor Hooper?” Sherlock inquired in an uncommonly soft voice.

 

Her eyes widened in surprise and she searched his face, but she seemed to find only genuine concern.

 

Her gaze fell on her hands which twisted together restlessly in her lap. “I came back to London when I did... because I needed to make an important decision.”

 

He blinked once slowly before his mouth parted to speak. “Decision?”

 

Molly’s eyes met his once more. “Do you recall... from one of my letters, the mention of a renewed acquaintance? We met years ago, through my uncle, during his time at Cambridge.”

 

“I believe so… _Thomas..._ something or other,” he replied, his brow creasing from the recollection.

 

She nodded. “Thomas Woodley, yes...he is establishing a cooperative of scientists after being awarded a research fellowship from the Royal Society. I received a letter from him 3 days ago, officially offering a Midlands research position in toxinology. _My_ work, not _Michael_ Hooper’s, would be published regularly in all the journals. I would finally be able to be _me_ and still _work_.”

 

They stared at each other for some seconds before Holmes rose and turned to the window.

 

“You would give it all up. Everything you’ve worked for these past twelve years to gain,” he stated in a low even tone, not as a question, but as an accusation.

 

This brought Molly to her feet and she stood, looking fixedly at the back of the detective’s head.

 

“This wouldn’t be an _easy_ decision for me, Mr. Holmes. And in spite of the way it may appear, it isn’t the first time I’ve considered… ‘giving it all up’, as you put it.”

 

He abruptly turned around to face her. “Forgive Me, I didn’t mean to imply... that it is easy. I... would imagine that _none_ of this has been easy for you...from the very beginning.” 

 

The affronted expression he _initially_ saw in her eyes abated slightly when she appeared to perceive his sincerity, both in voice and countenance.

 

“Long ago I accepted that my life in _London_ was Micheal’s _alone_ and _Molly_ was forever confined to a country existence. The challenge of the work at Barts had been all consuming, leaving me very little time at Bolingbroke. During the years of hiding, lying, being incessantly on guard and living with the constant fear of discovery; just the sheer complexity of it all, there were moments when I considered giving _Molly_ up all together...as some others have done. To cut my hair and all other ties to my true self, once and for all.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes grew at the idea that Molly Hooper’s existence had ever been imperiled by the woman herself. Somehow the very suggestion was a distinctly negative one; immediately recalling their first meeting, he remembered how impressed he was in making her acquaintance and all at once he realized what _a loss_ it would be to no longer have Doctor Molly Hooper in the world.  

 

“But then, I’d reflect...,” she added, cutting into his thoughts.“...with a clear mind, on how rare an opportunity it was; I’d chastise myself for self pity and would always decide to press on.” 

 

Her gaze wandered about the room with a far off look as she continued. “It all seemed to change though...when my crisis came and I revealed my secret to you. For that short while, I was _myself..._ here in London...for the very _first_ time. I was known... accepted and...protected.” 

 

Her eyes seemed to be drawn back to his from the memory and he could see her stirring emotions as she pondered her next words. 

 

“I didn’t realize how much I missed ‘Molly Hooper’ until I was allowed to be her again,” her voice dropping almost to a whisper, reflecting the gravity in her words. “And now I have this new opportunity. I admit, it is not Barts...but _it is_ a chance to continue in an area of study that I love and to perhaps do some good...not only for science, but perhaps even for my gender.”

 

Sherlock’s penetrating gaze searched hers for several seconds before he lowered his eyes to the floor. “No more hiding’...he murmured under his breath as he turned a second time to the window. ‘I _do_ understand and...sympathize with the unique position you find yourself. What will you do then, with Micheal Hooper? Will you allow him to disappear into the millions of the city or will you kill him off properly?”

 

Looking at the man, astounded, she took a few moments to respond.

 

“I thought he could return to Canada, actually…”

 

He turned around to meet her eyes with a questioning eyebrow. “Indeed?”

 

“Yes, although I confess, I haven’t quite thought it through yet. Remember, I hadn’t decided...entirely...” she replied with a small hesitant smile.

 

The detective tilted his head in scepticism and her smile grew, aware a moment _after_ he did, that in fact, she _had_ decided _..._ albeit, rather unconsciously. 

 

An enigmatic grin ghosted his lips as he walked to retrieve his pipe, giving her a sideways glance as he passed her. “I may be able to help you in that regard. Or I _should_ say, my brother could. It would be a shame to let things lapse halfheartedly at the end, since you’ve given such pains, for so long. And who knows...Michael Hooper _may_ be of some use in future. You never can tell with these things. A burnt bridge is hardly ever a useful one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So our Molly has made a very hard decision and that will definitely put Sherlock in an interesting dilemma. 
> 
> And I think my incredibly astute readers will also predict he may even encounter a new sort of pressure, with much higher stakes. 
> 
> Will our detective take the risk or will he fold his hand?

**Author's Note:**

> I pay homage to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by borrowing a couple of names and places, but they bear no connection to his actual characters/story plots. I've also used some historical names and places, while others are totally fictional. Costume drama and historical fiction are my favorite type of entertainment, so if I had any silly thoughts of minimal research I was totally fooling myself! Much of my inspiration coming from the research, but here lies the time challenge for me. So I beg your patience regarding how often I post. Hope you find it's worth the wait! ;)


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